


new heroes|nct fantasy au

by macaronmaniac



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Fantasy, JaeYong - Freeform, Magic, Medieval, Multi, NCT Dream - Freeform, NCT U, NEO CULTURE TECHNOLOGY - Freeform, Possibly Unrequited Love, WayV - Freeform, johnten, nct - Freeform, nct 127, possibly major character death, there’s so much irony in this, too much angst to be healthy, yutwin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macaronmaniac/pseuds/macaronmaniac
Summary: In a world where magic is feared, and creatures roam the land, a competition takes place in the kingdom of Avaria. Whilst this competition takes place, threats of war arise from letters of blackmail and hostility from other kingdoms such as Cruzia.Ten is a Cruzian, entering the tournament to disprove the alleged immoral nature of his people. If his true identity is discovered, he’ll most likely be killed.





	1. A Place To Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :)  
> This is the first story I'm posting on ao3, so I hope you can enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!
> 
> Important info(please read): This is set in a medieval fantasy world, similar to the tv series merlin. It consists of four main kingdoms: Avaria, Taruwo, Juzon, and Cruzia. The first three are bound together in an alliance to defend themselves against the steadily growing Cruzian empire. Despite the dread filling the people at the prospect of being conquered or fighting a war, the king of Avaria announces a national tournament in an attempt to raise people's spirits. It is open to anyone regardless of nobility or anything else that would usually prevent someone from entering a tournament. There is only one rule, and it is that if a Cruzian enters, they will be executed.

Just one look at Ten, and you'd know that he didn't belong here. He didn't belong with the bustling crowds, the cheerful expressions, the routine and organisation of the people. He wasn't used to being treated nicely, he wasn't used to the sense of community and family everyone shared with each other. He was used to drunken shouting; alleyway brawls; cold, judging stares; the constant unspoken rule of minding your own business, or facing the consequences. 

He wasn't used to this.

He had arrived in Avaria yesterday, and quickly found an inn to hide in so that he could avoid getting on the wrong side of the people. It was only when the innkeeper started making small talk with him, that he started having second thoughts about the kind of people here. He'd decided to come out and explore today, and was met with a completely unfamiliar world waiting outside.

A crowded market with loud, advertising voices, and colours that were even louder. You didn't need to look hard to find what you were looking for; you could simply listen for the call of a merchant, or read a large, illustrated sign above a stall. If someone bumped into you, they wouldn't blame you and beat you to a pulp, they'd apologise and be on their way. Parents held the hands of children, friends laughed and joked together, couples flirted behind the stalls. Every little thing was lively and happy.

All he could do was wander around, looking at each stall, each detail, and just drink it all in. This was a place people like him weren't meant to be, and not just because of where they came from. It was in the nature of the Cruzians to be cruel and isolate themselves from others, and it was in the Avarians' nature to be kind and happy and sociable. He saw clearly now, he saw why he couldn't be here. But he was, and he wouldn't leave unless they made him.

He looked up, past the market, and quite a distance away, saw the faint outline of the palace. A place not even these people would ever get the chance to see, not once in their lifetime. Only those who were lucky enough to serve royalty could speak of its beauty, the towering walls, the painted ceilings, the shining wooden floors, the crystal chandeliers and the soft, silk curtains. And only those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of royalty could speak of how their grandeur outshined that of the palace's.

The king was said to wear a blood-red, billowing cloak; the queen, a pure white gown embroidered with glittering diamonds and emeralds, so shiny that when the light reflected on them someone could be blinded if they stared for too long. And the two princes were said to have faces as smooth and untainted as porcelain, they were so perfect anyone who had ever seen them claimed the experience was like a dream, because it was so surreal. 

The entire palace was a different world, a world most people dreamed of living in. A world that Ten would possibly, if things went to plan, see with his own eyes. For you see, he planned to enter the national tournament, redeem his kingdom and be known as a hero by all. The only problem was if he told anyone where he came from, he'd be forbidden to enter, and executed as plainly stated in the notice. Something told him the king was not as merry and merciful as his people, but a strong grudge holder.

But he was willing to take the risk, he was putting his life on the line just to change the misconceptions about his people. Whilst many beliefs about them were true, they only became true after the beliefs were voiced aloud in the first place. Barbarians, thieves, rapists, drunkards, violent and greedy people - that was what they had been made out to be, and so that was what they had become. 

And Ten, well, he'd always been different, whether it was amongst his own people or a bunch of strangers. He stood out like a beacon - whether it was his lanky figure, the way he always insulted other people once he found an opportunity, his odd self-taught fighting style, or his ability to keep every personal detail about himself from others, no matter how long they'd known him.

He was different, and they'd realise that soon enough.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Taeyong felt anxiety gnawing inside of him, churning his insides until he felt like he had melted into a puddle of his own sweat - which was intensely coating his body at that very moment. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would explode, and the rush of thoughts flowing through his mind were like a river; always moving, and practically endless, growing in number and speed as time passed. Breathing seemed to be a chore, and the irrational part of his mind was wondering if killing himself in order to not do this would be worth it.

He blatantly ignored it, picking up his sword again and attacking the dummy in front of him. He tore it to shreds within seconds, but anyone could, for it wasn't moving and did not attack back. Unfortunately real life was not like that, and to make it worse, everyone he came across seemed to be far more skilled than he was. He was constantly shaming his father and himself, ruining his title of crown prince.

Although however much he ruined it, it still remained there - a burden constantly weighing him down. A burden that meant he was required to participate in the tournament, to redeem himself and regain his honour. A prince was meant to be strong, fight for his kingdom, act like the king he was fated to be. Taeyong wasn't any of those, he was a constant disappointment, and all he wanted was to make his father proud. All he wanted was to finally feel like he belonged.

Right now, he was to go out for the first challenge in ten minutes, and was desperately trying to get some last minute practice in, so he didn't look like a fool in front of everyone. This was his last chance, and he had to do things right this time. He had to fix things before it was too late.

He was so focused on his practice that he barely noticed when his younger brother, Jisung, walked into the room with an undeniable spring in his step. It was only when Jisung waved a hand in front of his face that he realised, nearly attacking the boy out of fright.

"Don't even do that again..." Taeyong mumbled, lowering his sword. "What's got you looking so cheerful?"

"Father says I can compete in the tournament." Jisung beamed.

"He what? That's ridiculous. You're too young. This isn't some friendly competition, the people here don't mess around. They're serious, they kill people and-and it's just no place for you." Taeyong protested, outraged and feeling overly protective of his younger brother.

"Cut it out, Taeyong. I'm not a kid anymore." Jisung replied, his smile vanished and replaced with an irritated look.

"You're not an adult either." Taeyong retorted angrily. "You can't compete. They'll tear you to pieces - and before you say, yes, I know they will do the same to me. The difference is, I have to compete. You don't, you can live instead of worrying about some stupid tournament." Jisung didn't seem to be swayed by this, however. He seemed perhaps even more determined to partake in the tournament, for the sheer danger of it all.

"You can't stop me competing." He said bluntly, staring Taeyong in the eyes, before stalking off. Taeyong let out an angry groan, hating himself and practically praying that Jisung didn't compete.

"I know I can't." He murmured after the boy had left. "I'm powerless and all I can do is hope that you'll do something brilliant to stay alive."

\---------------------------------------------  
Jisung stepped out of the tunnel, head and heart pounding in a clash of interweaving rhythms. The arena was spacious, it was massive, and yet the rowdy crowd seemed to make everything shrink, as if the walls were closing in on him. He felt small, he felt like a rabbit cornered by a fox. There was no escaping now, no second thoughts, he couldn't change his mind. 

Out of nowhere he felt a surge of energy inside of him. The noise of the crowd reverberated in his ears and he felt _powerful_ and he was determined to give it his all. Prove Taeyong wrong, show him that he was strong enough, that his older brother needn't worry anymore. He could fight for himself, and he would _win_. 

He charged towards his opponent, sword heavy in his hands, yet he wielded it with immense skill, stabbing and slicing through the air, only missing his opponent because they matched his swiftness, dodging every attack. Soon they began to take on the offensive, and Jisung held his sword tightly, blocking their attacks, but feeling the force of them as they bounced off his sword. He took a gamble, leaving himself undefended as he swung his sword round to hit his opponent on the head. His sword met its mark, but his opponent had hit the side of his breastplate, causing him to lose balance and fall to the ground. 

He panted, head throbbing, as he rolled to the side to dodge an attack. Gripping his sword, he jabbed at a gap in his opponent's armour, causing them to let out a grunt of pain. He took advantage of their momentary distraction, dropping his sword and using both of his hands to push them to the ground. A flag was held up in the stands to signify he'd won, and a feeling of great pride rose within him. He'd won.

He left the arena, immediately making his way over to where Taeyong was. With a smirk on his face he addressed his brother.

"I told you so. I told you I could do it." He said, expecting his brother to apologise and say how brilliant he'd been out there. Taeyong pursed his lips.

"You still could've been killed." He muttered, walking off.

Jisung was infuriated. How could he say that? Why did he always worry, why couldn't he celebrate the moments where nothing bad happened? Instead he just focused on what _could_ have happened, what _might_ have been. It was ridiculous, and Jisung found himself getting rather fed up with it.

He could never tell what Taeyong was thinking. Yes, he probably worried because he cared, but there was something up about the way he was just so _negative_. He never seemed to be at ease; he was always on edge as if he was expecting a whole army to barge in and start attacking. He just didn't... live in the moment. He was always considering the implications of his actions and what might happen in the future, or what could have happened in the past. He never focused on the here and now.

He probably saw no point in it. Taeyong would become king one day, and he'd constantly need to think about the future and make the right decisions. But he would never be able to do that unless he let go of the imaginary past in his head, all of the what if's that seemed to be constantly plaguing his conscience. Jisung wanted him to be happy, at least before he shouldered all of that responsibility, but truth be told, he hadn't seen a genuine smile from Taeyong in years.

Maybe one day it would change. He just had to keep on waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	2. Something Strange

Ten could feel every single thought in his head piercing his mind like a thousand knives. If they found out who he was, he'd be killed. If he wasn't careful in this fight, he'd be killed. If he didn't start keeping his mouth shut, it'd kill him any day now. Those morbid thoughts were like a hurricane, turning his mind into carnage, destroying the depth of his being with that single word. Death. It was horrible and terrifying and he knew that if he thought about it any longer he'd go mad.

He shook his head lightly, trying to clear his mind so that he could focus. Focus on the fight, focus on keeping his life intact in this particular instance, and worry about the others later. He tried to take deep breaths, but they turned into sighs and those sighs turned into groans. What was he even doing here? What the bloody hell had he gotten himself into? As soon as they saw him, he'd be recognised and killed just like that. They'd see it, they'd see the darkness in his eyes.

He felt a strange longing for his tiny room back in Cruzia, where he was safe for the most part. He knew how things worked there, he knew how the people thought and he knew how to avoid a fight. And yet here he was, walking into one willingly. He already regretted everything, but he couldn't go back now. He'd left that world behind, and he had entered another, one that was just as dangerous, and just as terrifying.

Avarians were nice to most people. But not to Cruzians. And that was what made his situation so precarious, so risky. One slip up and he was done for, dead, gone. Mistakes were not something he could afford to make, he had to keep up this pretence and make sure that no one saw through him. Because if someone did, things would become a lot more complicated.

He could feel all his nerves tingling inside of him because of these thoughts, he was anxious about the upcoming fight. It didn't help that most Avarians seemed to be largely built, and generally quite intimidating. They all looked strong, and the muscles weren't just for show; one of them could snap his neck with one hand. But swordplay was a different art, it depended more on actual skill.

That was what reassured Ten. You had to be light on your feet, you had to be quick, and most importantly, you had to be clever. You had to plan your attacks, you had to catch your opponent off-guard. And if there was one thing Ten was good at, it was keeping his head in high pressure situations. Yes, he got nervous, but he could still think, he could still be cunning. He was agile and his sword was very light, he could use his size to his advantage if he was facing one of the larger ones. He knew how to win a fight, that wasn't what he was nervous about.

It was always about that one mistake, that one slip up. He knew that in all circumstances and situations, it was what ended you. It wasn't lack of skill or brains. It was if you weren't quite quick enough, or your aim was slightly off, just once was enough to change everything. Ten knew that all too well. He knew the damage that mistakes could cause. He just had to hope that today he wouldn't make one.  
\---------------------------------------------

As a blacksmith's apprentice, Johnny knew a fair amount about weaponry and good swordsmanship. He could tell if a sword was polished or sharpened regularly; the size of a person using an axe just by the marks on the handle; the difference between copper and bronze from several metres away, and he could easily spot someone's weakness by watching them fight no longer than thirty seconds. He'd been watching the first few rounds of the tournament, making fair predictions about how the matches would go. Now, the fifth match had begun, and he had no trouble telling that the large man would be slow, and would struggle aiming his blows. The other, however... Johnny couldn't figure him out.

He was small compared to his contestant, not so much in height but rather by his thin figure. He was fast, and steady on his feet, and watching the way he fought was almost like watching a dance. He'd take a hit, and it would seem like he'd fall down, but then somehow he'd shrug it off and manage to turn things to his advantage. His movements flowed into each other like a rehearsed routine, everything looking simple and easy. He often looked at the audience, like he was speaking to them silently through his dark eyes.

Johnny could feel he was trying to convey a message, something like 'This is who I am, and nothing changes that.' There were so many emotions in his eyes, those captivating eyes. Like a hurricane he was wild and unyielding, and he took the arena by storm. He didn't kill his opponent; he simply knocked him down, helped him back to his feet, and shook his hand. Whilst the large man's face was an interesting shade of purple, it seemed to mostly be out of surprise, and not anger.

After regaining their composure, the audience began to cheer loudly. Johnny stood up and slipped into the waiting area beneath the stadium, aware that his match was after the next one. He'd been thrown off by what he'd just seen, but still had confidence in himself, and felt no desire to practice as he saw some of the other contestants doing in a very ferocious manner. The large man from the last match came down, conversing with fellow losers, but the other was nowhere to be seen. He'd shown up, done his fight, and apparently disappeared into thin air.

The din of the crowd rose up again as the next match began, and Johnny sat listening to the shouts and roars, waiting for his turn. Despite his mind being calm, his body betrayed him, as his palms were sweaty. He wiped them on his trousers, and tried out his grip on his sword, making sure it wouldn't slip. Suddenly his confidence seemed to be fading away, he imagined going up against someone practically invincible like the previous match, fluid movements blurring in front of his face until he was spinning through a black abyss-No. No, he couldn't think that. He had to stop panicking and snap out of it, stop being stupid.

He felt a weight in his chest as he stood up to go to his fight, distracting him with the horrible feeling of dread. He tried his best to ignore it as he stepped out into the stadium, and the sound of the crowd filled his ears. He looked over at his opponent; tall, muscular and wielded two swords, making a right show of flipping them about in his hands. Most likely arrogant and overconfident, so Johnny had to be spontaneous and catch him off guard. 

A trumpet rang out to start the match, and Johnny gripped his sword with determination. His opponent ran at him, flipping the swords round and round, before finally making an attack. Johnny blocked it with his sword, and used it to push the attacking swords away. He swung his sword round, catching his opponent behind the leg and disrupting his balance. Johnny used the opportunity to knock one of his swords out of his hands, sending it flying out towards the gasping crowd. His opponent lunged forward and jabbed the sword at Johnny, who moved to the side and slashed at the arm holding the sword. However, his opponent simply grabbed the sword in his other hand, lunging forwards again. Johnny moved again, but not quick enough, and it caught the side of his arm. He hissed, and swung his sword in a large motion, hitting his opponent's breastplate, making a loud clang as his sword bounced off the metal. Suddenly a burst of adrenaline hit him square in the chest, and he swung out again, and again, hitting the breastplate and pushing his opponent backwards. Eventually he toppled over and fell onto the ground, and Johnny let out a whoop, raising his sword above his head, and listening to the cheers of the crowd.

It all seemed to have happened to quickly, he thought, as he sat back in the waiting area, receiving congratulations and applause from the other champions. They clapped him on the back, talking avidly about his fight. He could only smile, still shocked and taking it all in. As he glanced around, he locked eyes with a familiar face, dark eyes looking at him with an unreadable expression. 

And as Johnny tore his gaze away from those eyes, he had an unnerving feeling that something wasn't right.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Chenle had been practicing amongst his duties, and deeply regretted it as he sat with aching muscles and a pounding heartbeat. Being a servant in itself was no easy feat, and living a double life alongside it as a competitor in the tournament only made things more complicated. But he still wanted to do this. Because of the rule that stated you did not need to say your position within the levels of society, he wanted to show that even he, a mere servant, could be capable of doing extraordinary things. Things no one would ever expect of him, he'd defy all their expectations and assumptions about who he was.

Soon he also found that he became very irritated by Haechan - his friend and fellow servant - who was continuously humming. Very loudly. Haechan was participating in the tournament too, and unlike Chenle, had been shouting loudly that he was a servant and a living legend. Many people sent him scathing looks, and Chenle had no doubt they'd probably figured out his status just by the fact he was the only person sitting next to Haechan. Yes, he was having quite a few second thoughts thanks to Haechan.

"Everyone is looking at you." Chenle said, trying to bring the situation to Haechan's attention. 

"Huh, they are, aren't they? I'm popular already." Chenle found the older boy's obliviousness quite remarkable, and felt another surge of exhaustion rise up in him, adding to the fatigue he was already feeling.

"Popular wouldn't be my exact choice of word. Considering the dirty, condescending looks they're giving you." He interjected in the most polite way he could, doubtful Haechan would even notice if he was outright talking him down, but took no chances despite that. "Perhaps notorious, or infamous would be more suited."

"Popular." Haechan replied in a singsong voice. "They're all the same thing, really. All fame is good fame, my dear friend. And hey, that person just smiled at me!" 

"He was sneering."

"Same thing. Anyway, it's my match now. Wish me luck!"

"Just don't die, please?" Chenle begged.

"And why would I go and do that? That'd just be embarrassing. I'll see you on the other side, kid." He said the last part in a deep, mocking manly voice as he stood up and bounced off cheerily to the arena.

"Fucking idiot." Chenle muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"Think I'll agree with you there." He turned his head to the person who spoke, finding a boy who looked about the same age as him. He had a sharp jawline, and light brown hair that seemed to settle perfectly into that sort of casual windswept look. "I'm Jaemin." He held out his hand, and Chenle took it with uncertainty.

"I'm Chenle. How long have you been sitting there?" He inquired, wondering how he hadn't noticed the boy.

"For a while, actually. Based on what I overhead, your conversation was interesting, to say the least. Or would strange be a better word?" He had a sly smirk on his face, and chuckled lightly. Whilst Chenle felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, he couldn't help but think of Haechan out there, and all the boos of the crowd that he was hearing.

"Perhaps." He muttered, losing himself to his own thoughts, and didn't say anymore. Jaemin didn't seem to mind sitting in silence; he seemed rather comfortable and understanding. Somehow it was nice to be in someone else's presence whilst he worried irrationally about his friend, and Chenle thought that maybe he worried less, just because Jaemin allowed him to worry instead of trying to hold a conversation.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, Haechan's match ended. Chenle sat up, looking at the entrance with anticipation and increased anxiety. He felt a great amount of relief as Haechan limped through with an infectious smile on his face. He pushed past the people crowding the door, and made his way towards Chenle.

"I won, motherfucker-" He paused and looked around. "Oh my god, you replaced me!" He gasped, taking in Jaemin, who was still sitting there and looking at Haechan with interest.

"Just in case you died." Chenle grinned.

"Do you have that little faith in me?" Haechan began his never ending overdramatic complaining. "My only friend, you betrayed me, you turncoat, you coward, you! My whole life is a tragedy, and it's all your fault, you filthy, lying-"

"I'm Jaemin." Haechan was cut off by Jaemin, presenting his hand to shake once again. He wrinkled his nose at it, but pinched it by the fingertips and gave it a gentle shake. "Congrats."

"Well at least someone recognises my talent."

"Oh, enough." Chenle interrupted. "What did you do to your leg, anyway?"

"Aw, he's all worried." The grin grew larger, before turning into an exasperated sigh. "If you must know, I tripped onto my own sword."

"You-"

"Yes, I did, now drop it? Okay?"

"Nope. I'm never letting you forget this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the second chapter out! I've written quite a few chapters already but haven't published them so that I can stay on top of getting chapters out on a regular and frequent basis. Hope you enjoyed this, comment or leave kudos if you did!
> 
> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	3. A Goddamn Bottle Of Rum

As he stood in the crowd, Yuta already felt a deep longing for the sway of his ship, the smell of the salty sea wind, and a goddamn bottle of rum. He felt extremely disorientated in these unfamiliar surroundings, and was shocked when he remembered that most people lived on land. Of course, most people weren't ravaging thieves, or - what was the name they called people like him? Pirates. Yet he still marvelled at the way their lives lacked, well, life. They all seemed so dull and boring, devoid of any sense of adventure. What did they do for fun instead of pursuing ancient (and nonexistent) treasure?

He watched the last few rounds of the tournament with disinterest, simply because he had nothing else to do. The crowd around him were enthralled by it for some reason, roaring whenever one of the competitors so much as took a breath. It was hard to decide when they were happy or not, because all that came from them was an explosion of noise, almost deafening. What was so exciting about watching someone be killed?

Despite his inability to understand the people here, he'd already got something out of the experience. Yes, a beautiful gold necklace that had been far too easy to steal from a young lady as she swooned over him. She just came out of nowhere, saying words he wasn't at all listening to, wearing the beauty around her neck. It was fairly simple for him to play along with her flirting, slowly unclasp the chain and slip it into his pocket. Indeed, she was so smitten she didn't even notice. The whole ordeal was laughable; were looks all people cared about now, so much that they didn't notice what was right beneath their nose?

What he also found interesting was the way people fought here. None of them fought because their lives depended on it, swordplay was a hobby to them. They didn't need to worry about balance because they weren't on the edge of a ship, they were on flat ground. And as a result of their inattentiveness, many lost their lives to people who took the tournament seriously. Too seriously. After all, wasn't it to determine who was truly noble despite their birth, or whatever? Being able to kill someone did not really fall into that category.

He'd already won his match, leaving his opponent merely in an unconscious state. Originally, Yuta had entered the tournament for a laugh, but it had relit a spark inside of him. A spark of competitiveness, and determination that was slowly spreading and growing into a flame. There was a new sense of adventure in doing this, and it filled him with an indescribable feeling, something words couldn't convey.

At last the first round of matches was finished, and Yuta absentmindedly moved with the crowd, not caring where they were going. He just needed to blend in, and possibly steal from a few pockets whilst he was as it. Whilst he was more accustomed to raiding ships, he also had a knack for pick-pocketing, especially from oblivious people such as these. As they stepped into a building, he looked at the sign; an intricately carved sign reading The Golden Sparrow. He grinned to himself, already looking forward to a bloody brawl that was bound to happen in this pub. 

Besides, it was about time he got that bottle of rum.  
\---------------------------------------------  
The day was coming to an end, the first round of the tournament finished, and most people headed straight for a pub as soon as they'd stepped out of the arena. Winners, losers, and observers alike had all been drawn to the place either to celebrate the victories, or drink away the shame of losing. Amongst his own gaggle of admirers and well-wishers, was Lucas, enjoying every bit of attention given to him. It had been hard for him to win his match, very hard indeed, yet all he kept hearing was how amazing he'd done, how he'd made it look easy. He was beginning to get a little sceptical about all the compliments, but soon that rational part of his brain was drowned by gallons of ale.

"Of course, I've been training for years, but most of it just comes from the natural talent that I'm so lucky to possess." He boasted loudly to all the keen ears listening, and took another swig of ale. A scoff came from behind him, and he whipped his head around to the direction of the voice. He came face to face with a boy with chiselled facial features and a look of disbelief on his in his eyes. He looked only a couple of years older than Lucas.

"Natural talent? Give me a break. How much money did you waste on bribing them to let you win? Of course, it wouldn't effect you that much, would it? You probably throw around money without a care, you don't worry about it, do you?" The boy sneered, and Lucas felt anger rise up in him. Common people, always complaining about having no money. It wasn't his fault that they didn't, yet they always lashed out at him.

"If money's what you want, will you shut your filthy mouth if I give it to you?" Lucas snarled, aware of most of the pub watching this exchange. The boy, however, only looked more offended at the offer, eyes glaring daggers.

"Oh, I'm filthy am I? Some sort of animal? Just because I don't live in a mansion, just because I don't have a crowd of admirers, just because I actually earned the money I possess." Lucas glowered. "What are you going to do, huh? What punishment can your golden coins bestow upon me?"

"Shouldn't you have been over there, anyway?" Lucas pointed vaguely towards the table which the losers gathered around. A couple of people laughed, and the boy blushed as he'd said that, and stepped closer to him, eyes flickering like a raging fire.

"No, actually, I won my match. Just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, it doesn't mean you're any better than the rest of us!" He yelled, giving Lucas a sharp prod in the chest, and a there were a few replies of 'hear, hear'. It seemed a few people were on his side. Most likely peasants just like him, no one with any real power.

"I can't believe you even have the nerve to talk to me, you peasant." Lucas spat, and a fist connected with his face, knocking him to the floor. He got to his feet, with a menacing smirk on his face. "Oh, you are going to pay for that." 

He lunged at the boy, swinging a fist that met its mark, right in the eye. The boy hissed in pain, and came at Lucas again, pushing him against a wall. Lucas kicked him in the balls, and practically threw him across the room, taking out a few onlookers. The boy was infuriated, and again and again they pummelled each other, blinded by emotions and pride.

Finally Lucas stepped away, nursing his bruised cheeks and bleeding nose tentatively. "Enough of this." He signalled to the royal guards at the door, who recognised him as someone of high nobility with close relations to the throne. "Arrest this peasant." 

There was a flash of fear in the boy's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by the ever growing rage as the guards came over. The grabbed him by the arms, unaffected by his struggling, and dragged him out of the pub. All Lucas remembered was that look on his face, the look that stirred something inside of him. He didn't know what it was, but he felt wrong. He felt like he'd made a mistake. But he brushed it off, and enjoyed the rest of the night.

\---------------------------------------------  
The sky was scattered with stars, and Taeyong tried to count them, but ended up losing count. It reminded him of how many times he'd defied his father, done something wrong. There was a vast array of occasions, and he didn't bother counting them anymore. He never had. 

He picked up his wine goblet to take another sip, only to find it empty. He gestured for the servant boy to refill it.

"Th-The jug is e-empty, sir." He stammered. Taeyong tried to hide his surprise. Had he really drunk that much? He'd been drinking to forget his mistakes, but it was hopeless. He kept feeling worse and worse, and getting deeper into thought about everything he did wrong. 

"Refill the jug, then. And be quick about it." Normally Taeyong wouldn't take this kind of tone with servants, but as the boy scurried off, he found that he couldn't care less. It was late at night, but he didn't care about depriving the boy of sleep. He didn't care about making him run all the way to the dark wine cellars and back. He just didn't care at all. 

He leant his head on his hand, exhaustion suddenly seeping into his body. He knew that he should have gone to sleep, gotten some rest before inevitably facing his father the next day. But he found himself standing up, his feet leading him somewhere. He stumbled a lot, practically dragging himself through the halls of the palace. He didn't know where he was going, and only became fully aware of his surroundings when he was standing in the dungeons. In the corner, the two guards were playing some game together. He staggered past them, to the cells. 

In one of the cells he saw a young man, lying on the stone floor asleep. He had a handsome face, with defined cheekbones and jawline. His hair was light brown, and perfectly framed his face. Taeyong suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for him. He was trapped in this cell, sentenced to public humiliation - whether it was the stocks or a death sentence didn't matter. Taeyong was trapped too. Confined by his father's expectations, fated to fail and ruin everything. How people would laugh if they knew that their crown prince, their next king, cowered whilst his father beat him. How they would laugh if they knew how he always messed up.

"Release him." Taeyong said, turning to face the guards. They only just seemed to realise whose presence they were in, shock on their faces as the dice they held dropped to the floor with a clatter.

"Of course, your majesty." One of them said, dropping to his knees, the other promptly doing the same.

"At least one of us can be free." Taeyong muttered, descending the stairs leading out of the dungeons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, ever so slowly, I am introducing characters. It's taking a while but I'll get there eventually. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	4. Trapped

Johnny sat on the banks of the river Tephrys next to Mark, watching his friend stare thoughtfully at the sky. Mark was often like this. Perfectly talkative, and then suddenly lost in thought, gone into a world of his own. Johnny teased him about it, but it wasn't really that odd. It happened to most people, especially when there were many things to think about.

"It's strange." Mark muttered softly.

"What is?" Johnny inquired.

"This. All of it." He replied. "The tournament, hiding the fact that there's a war just around the corner. The legionnaires seem more concerned about how our form is in our matches rather than preparing us for battle." He paused for a few seconds. "It's strange." He repeated.

"Aside from that, how are things in the _royal legion_?" Johnny asked in his usual mocking tone, hoping to talk about more positive things.

"Kinda lonely. Doyoung moved to another cohort, so I don't really know anyone anymore. From what I can tell, he's already making enemies just by being better than everyone else."

"Tell him to be more careful." Johnny suggested.

"I would," Mark responded, his tone weary, "But I can barely get enough sleep, let alone find the time to look for him and talk to him. The barracks are bigger than you'd think. It's probably about a mile from one end to the other."

"Okay, that's exaggerating."

"As if you never exaggerate." Mark laughed, a melodic yet dissonant sound. Johnny nodded his head in acknowledgement, running his hand through the water with a grin on his face. 

"Bet you can't stay dry after this." He said, splashing Mark with water, hardly giving the younger boy time to fight back in between his incessant attacks. Mark managed to land a few hits on Johnny, but in the end he was the one who ended up soaked.

"Hey, I'm already out after hours, I'll be flogged coming back soaking wet!" Mark protested, and Johnny rolled his eyes.

"You've told me numerous times that they don't actually care." He responded matter-of-factly. 

"They'll care if I catch a cold and start sneezing in practice. They once kicked someone out for sniffing whilst a superior was speaking." Mark's face had gone dark. He noticed Johnny's change of expression, a concerned look, and hastily changed his own. "You're right, though. They don't care." He smiled, just a little bit, and Johnny knew that even that took effort. "I'd better get back."

Mark stood up and walked away from the river, leaving Johnny alone to wallow in his thoughts. He was always worried about Mark; from what he'd heard the royal legion was harsh, one a tiny slip up and you'd be gone like that. He just had to trust in his friend, trust that he'd be able to handle things.

Why was that so hard to do?  
\---------------------------------------------

Taeil was balanced on the edge of a knife. The ground he stood on was sharp, and one slip would end his life, one wrong move would end in disaster. He couldn't move freely, he had to think, he couldn't afford to be reckless. Not with someone constantly breathing down his neck, someone who held the fate of everything he cared about in the palm of her hand.

To escape Taruwo, the confinements of the palace, and the duties of being king was like a breath of fresh air. He felt free and alive, he could let go for a second. Have a little fun by participating in this tournament, stop worrying and worrying about everything. He'd found balance on the knife, and was determined to keep it before all hell reigned free once more. 

But he lost that when a messenger approached him in the early hours of the morning, presenting him with a letter. He'd seen the messenger enough times to know who it was from, and dread washed over him like ice cold water being poured over his head. He held the letter tightly, his hands shaking, not wanting to open it. Not wanting to face more threats and blackmail.

But he tore open the seal, and began to read it.

_Dearest King of Taruwo,_

_I have not heard from you lately, and thought it best to remind you where your loyalties should lie. I know that you are currently in Avaria for the tournament, but you did not inform me of this, nor anything you may have discussed with the Avarian king._

_Let me remind you that I have an army always mobilised, that I have spies within your kingdom, assassins that can slaughter those you care about. All it takes is one word from my mouth and your water system will be poisoned, your whole kingdom will slowly die and fade away into nothing._

_So I ask you not to forget our agreement to cooperate, for consequences of disobeying me often prove to be extremely severe, as I am sure you have heard._

_Sincerely, Her Highness, Queen of Cruzia_

"I will be awaiting your reply." The messenger said, and walked off leaving Taeil in a mess. His emotions were at war with each other, his heart was pounding, his head ached. He'd wanted to escape from the stress, just for a little while, but it seemed she wouldn't let him out of her sights. No wonder he'd still had that feeling that he was being watched. It was a feeling that never went away, and he loathed it.

The alliance between Avaria, Juzon, and Taruwo had been formed three years ago. Taeil had received the first letter a week after, no doubt because she thought his kingdom was the weakest out of the three, and his youth and inexperience compared to the other rulers would make him more easy to manipulate. Both of those had proved to be true, he'd fallen prey to her threats. He'd known that she meant them, but he hadn't thought of a way to get around them. He could have tracked down her spies, or sought help from the other two kingdoms, but instead he did exactly what she wanted. He became her spy, her puppet, losing any power he'd had before. 

If only he could turn back time and change things. If only none of this had happened. All he could do was hope for a way out of this, and do his best to keep his kingdom alive and happy. That was all he could do, he was useless, a pathetic excuse of a king. All he was was a mask for the Cruzian Queen to hide behind, a pawn that she used to control Taruwo.

And now as he wrote back, it took all the strength he had not to say that he was done with this, that he'd had enough. He didn't want to be constantly trapped in this corner he'd backed into. He wanted to fight back, he needed to. Before it was too late to do anything. Although he had a horrible feeling it already was.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Jaehyun groaned as he was thrown onto a cold, stone floor, and he heard the horrible sound of a key scraping inside a lock. He was seething, he still felt that raging anger swirling around inside of him. He was mostly angry at himself, how he'd spoken without thinking about the consequences. But he didn't regret what he'd said. It was the truth, and that rich bloke deserved a bit of honesty, albeit brutal, in his privileged life.

He did regret letting it escalate into a fight, however. He could still feel the alcohol numbing his senses, and desperately wished he'd thought before throwing that first punch. But he couldn't help it, the rage he felt when he'd been called a peasant. Yes, he knew that he was a peasant, but to have someone say it whilst they looked at him like he was nothing was different. He wasn't nothing, and he would prove it if it was the last thing he did. Even if he had to pull apart these metal bars with his bare hands.

He sat in self-loathing and pity for a while, wondering what they would do to him. Would he be executed? Locked up here forever? Surely they'd just put him in the stocks or something... The rich bloke hadn't looked that important, had he? But the details were slipping from his mind, and his head throbbed in pain. Hours had passed, and he just wished that he was at home, asleep in his bed...

He was standing in the middle of a large cavern, with a strange purple hue to the jagged walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing as it hit the ground in tiny splashes. He could hear a voice speaking, it had a cruel tone, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. Laughter filled his ears and he clenched his fists. Couldn't they shut up? A sudden chilly gust of wind caused him to shiver, it made him feel cold, so cold, and he knew that he had lost, he didn't have hope anymore. He wanted death...

The ear splitting noise of metal grating against stone awoke him, and he saw with bleary eyes that his cell door was being opened. The guard stood there for a few seconds, giving him an appraising stare, before roughly grabbing him by the arms and pulling him to his feet.

"You're free to go." He grunted.

"I'm- What?" Jaehyun replied, still confused about whether he was awake yet or not. The guard nodded lazily, and gestured for him to leave. "But why?" He found himself asking.

"Prince's orders. Now go on, get out."

Jaehyun did as he said, his head spinning. Prince's orders? Why in the name of god would one of the princes release him? Why would they care for a peasant like him? It was impossible for his mind to comprehend, and he could only mutter the words to himself over and over again as he traipsed out of the dungeons and away from the palace. He was so preoccupied by this that he forgot all about that strange dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late, sorry. Not much happens, but that will be the same for the first few chapters. I'm doing two povs per chapter, and I want to have everyone done before launching into the main plot, as it will focus on certain characters more than others. Hope you enjoyed this  
> chapter, feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments!
> 
> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	5. Enough Apologies

Jungwoo lay in the lavish gardens beside Lucas, watching the boy as he played with a piece of grass in his slender fingers. He had an angry scab on his lip, purple bruises scattered across his cheeks, and dried blood around his nose. Jungwoo had tried to help, he'd asked what happened, but Lucas hadn't told him anything, he merely lay down on the grass, gesturing for him to do the same. Jungwoo reluctantly obeyed, worried; he hadn't seen Lucas the whole of last night. And judging from his appearance, something had happened during that time.

"Sir-" He began.

"How many times have I asked you not to call me that?" Lucas snapped, before calming down upon seeing the terrified expression on Jungwoo's face. "We're friends, Jungwoo. But you never say my name. Always 'sir', or 'young master', and I'm sick of it." 

"It's not right for me to address you any other way." Jungwoo muttered, hiding his own anger behind a polite manner he'd practised so much that no one would believe he wasn't truly sincere in saying those words. He longed to call Lucas by his name, but he was afraid. But no one would know, and as far as he was concerned, the secret would die with him. "We shouldn't be out here. You didn't come home last night, I really ought to tell Master Wong that you're here-"

"Did he even realise I wasn't there? You know he doesn't care, he's barely ever sober and he couldn't give a damn about where I am. As long as he's rich and pampered to his heart's content, he won't ever care." Lucas retorted, sounding angry but Jungwoo knew that sadness lingered behind those words. "Well, did he notice?" 

"H-He didn't say anything sir, but I'm sure that he-"

"He doesn't. Stop trying to sugar coat everything. You might as well be lying." Lucas frowned, before throwing the blade of grass onto the ground. He stared up at the sky, and Jungwoo followed his gaze, looking at the fluffy clouds moving slowly above them. Lucas seemed entranced by it.

"I'm sorry." Jungwoo hastily apologised. "I was only trying to help."

"Oh, for god's sake, I don't want your apologies!" Jungwoo nearly apologised again to that, but quickly stopped himself, gritting his teeth. "I just want you to realise that we're friends, and... well, you need to stop doing all this." He made a vague gesture towards Jungwoo. 

Jungwoo just pursed his lips, swallowing down the apologies that kept rising in his throat. He wanted things to be as easy as Lucas made them sound. He wanted them to be friends, but it didn't work like that. It wasn't worth the risk. The risk of being found out and Lucas being punished. And Jungwoo would be punished too, but he didn't really care about that. He'd had his fair share of beatings, enough to be immune to caring about the pain anymore.

"What happened last night?" He murmured, staring at the injuries tainting Lucas' perfect face. "How did you get those bruises on your face?" 

"I got into a fight. I..." Lucas trailed off, screwing his face up in concentration, as if it was hard for him to remember. "I got someone arrested. The person I fought... I didn't really mean to... I think I was drunk..."

"Let's go back inside." Jungwoo kept his tone soft, despite his outrage and worry for the boy. "You need to rest, and get cleaned up. Come on." He stood up, offering his hand to Lucas, and pulled him to his feet. He noticed that as they walked back to the manor together, Lucas clung tightly to his hand.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Jisung stared at Taeyong in utter disbelief. 

"You released some random peasant." He said plainly. Taeyong just nodded, looking sheepish and also aggravated. Jisung identified the faint scent of alcohol on his body. "You released some random peasant... I hope you have a fucking good reason, because father's going to kill you."

"I am aware of that, thank you very much." Taeyong said coolly, and looked positively outraged. God knows why, it was his own fault. Jisung could feel his brother's fear, along with his own as they mingled together in a knot of heartbeats and trembles. Last time something like this happened, father had slapped Taeyong, right in the face, leaving a bruise that, despite fading away, always remained there as a constant reminder. What would he do now? And what would he do when he reached his limit, when Taeyong finally tipped him over the edge?

Jisung hoped he would never have to find out.

"I'm so screwed, I wasn't thinking straight, why'd I even do it..." Taeyong muttered to himself, unaware that Jisung was listening. His face wore an expression of pain, but his eyes were saying more than anything else could. Even Jisung couldn't untangle his brother's complex emotions, he couldn't tell what was going on inside his head. It worried him.

"Prince Taeyong, the king requests your presence." An attendant bowed as they walked in. Taeyong gave Jisung a halfhearted grimace, before following the attendant out. Jisung rubbed his hands over his face, tired and at the same time, restless. He wanted to sleep, yet he didn't want to think; he wanted to do something, anything, but he didn't have the energy to do so.

He found himself walking through the corridors of the palace, and stopped abruptly when he heard a crash from inside his father's chambers. Taeyong. His heart hammered against his chest, did he dare to open the door? There was silence, chilling Jisung's bones as his hand lingered above the doorknob. He heard his brother's voice speaking quietly, he couldn't hear what he was saying. But then he heard his father shout.

"I'm sick of your apologies! It doesn't change anything! When will you learn? When will you act how you're supposed to?" Jisung had never heard him sound this angry in his life, it almost brought tears to his eyes, because he was so afraid, so afraid. "You useless son of a bitch, get out, get out, get out!" Jisung hid behind a pillar, and watched as the doors opened, Taeyong walking out.

There were tears streaming down his face, which was bleeding, the blood and tears becoming one as they flowed down. He looked defeated, he looked helpless, and his whole body was trembling. Jisung was trembling too, as he watched his brother, as he felt a surge of hatred towards his father. And he stayed silent, letting tears of his own fall, before Taeyong let out a guttural scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is late, I hit a bit of a slump. I haven't even finished the next chapter yet, but I thought it was stupid to delay publishing a chapter I've already written. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you think in the comments!


	6. A Heart’s Fortune

Jaemin was roughly awoken from a relaxing sleep by Jeno shaking him madly. He opened his eyes, held up a finger to his friend, and then attempted to go back to sleep. He heard a sigh, and the shaking did not cease. How Jeno had even gotten into his house when he locked the door every night, Jaemin did not know. He opened his eyes again, and registered an irritated expression on Jeno's face.

"It's midday." He said, as if he was expecting Jaemin to leap out of bed if he said that.

"And? You felt the need to tell me? Cause I don't care, I'm sleeping." Jaemin mumbled in response, getting another glare in return from Jeno. 

"You're not. You're getting out of bed, and you're going to the market and helping on the stall." Jeno said, prodding him sharply. Jaemin didn't move. So somehow he ended up on the floor, drenched with ice cold water. "Feel like going now?"

"Maybe..." Jaemin huffed, standing up defeatedly. 

Helping out on the stall meant that he had to endure the rancid smell of fish, and handle the slimy little buggers as he sold them to customers. For some reason it was always him who had to touch them; Jeno had a way of getting out of it. Jaemin always flashed a fake smile at the customers, being as friendly as he could, but inside he felt like punching someone. He wanted to find a new job, yet despite his hate for working on the stall, he stayed. Something about this job made him not want to leave. He didn't know what it was, but he wouldn't find another job until he did.

"Stop looking annoyed, it's scaring away the customers." Jeno snapped, as Jaemin had slumped against the side of the stall with a hateful expression on his face. He stuck out his tongue at Jeno, and let his frown grow deeper. He was tired from the tournament yesterday, and was not in the mood for being cheerful.

"What customers?" He muttered, knowing that rush hour in the market was early in the morning. Thus, he always slept in to avoid it. Jeno poked him and pointed at people approaching the stall.

"Those ones." Jaemin slowly turned his head to where he was pointing, and it took him a while to recognise familiar faces. It was those boys he'd met yesterday, bickering away even when they reached the stall, and Jaemin coughed gently to get their attention.

"Oh, god." Haechan said. "It's you."

"Yes. What can I help you with?" Jaemin spoke wearily, not bothering with the fake smile, because he knew that they didn't care, and would see through it anyway. Jeno was glaring daggers at him, so much that he could feel the stare without even turning around and looking at him.

"Oh, um, we'd like to buy some fish." Chenle said uncertainly, and Jaemin nodded, gesturing to the fish on the table.

"And this is the fish stall." He stated plainly, and Jeno punched him lightly in the side, muttering various threats under his breath. "Fine." He whispered back at Jeno, and then addressed the boys. "What would you like?"

"A bit of everything. I've forgotten which we were supposed to get." Haechan said, sneaking a glance at Chenle who just shook his head.

"You were supposed to remember."

"Was not."

"Before this escalates into a heated argument, here is your fish." Jaemin quickly presented the bag to the boys, and they took it, already distracted from what they'd been bickering about. 

"That'll be twenty silvers, please.” Jeno held out his hand to receive the money, counting each coin to check it was the right amount. His dainty fingers held the money carefully, and his face was locked in concentration as he counted. Jaemin realised he’d been spacing out a little, and turned his attention back towards their customers to save himself from another criticism from Jeno.

“Have a good day.” He said, something he said to all customers, but this time the smile came a little more naturally.

“You too.” Chenle replied, before being dragged away by Haechan. Jaemin chuckled to himself. For some reason, the idea of friendship with the two appealed to him.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Sunlight streamed through Sicheng's tiny window, enough for him to see but not enough to blind him. His worktable was littered with various items; several blueprints and sketches, a large hammer, a tiny wooden model of a helmet, and his own battered sword. He wasn't the only blacksmith there, but he'd always liked to think he was the best one. And he'd been unrivaled until the one across the road took on a new apprentice, who seemed to have a certain way with the tools. He didn't need to be told instructions twice, and sometimes he didn't need them at all. He'd made a silver double axe without even being told how to.

Nevertheless, it didn't discourage Sicheng, who knew he'd get good business. Competitors of the tournament would be looking to get the best weapons, the tool that would amplify their chances of winning the most, and they'd look everywhere to find the right one. Whilst Sicheng was competing in the tournament himself, he was perfectly happy to indulge these people and craft good weapons for them. First of all, if he didn't, it would be sabotaging. And secondly, he knew that he had a fair chance anyway without only making fancy weapons for himself. He wasn't being arrogant, he just knew that the weapon was simply one of the variable factors that would affect the outcome of a fight, and that the whole fight did not depend on it.

So rather than working on improving the quality of his sword, he'd been honing his fighting skills. He'd managed to set up a sort of wooden post, which he could practise with. It wasn't much, but it was all he had, and he grabbed his sword and began slashing at it at any spare moment he had. It was already getting worn down, the wood being chipped away with every hit.

As he stood behind his work table, drumming his fingers against the wood, a stranger walked up to him, looking around the shop nonchalantly. He stopped in front of Sicheng, leaning on the work table with a grin.

"Hey, this is a neat little place you got here." He gestured to the building, and Sicheng muttered a small thanks, slightly bewildered. "You must work hard, making all those swords and axes and whatnot."

"How can I help you?" Sicheng asked though gritted teeth, already tired of the procrastinating small talk and the overly friendly attitude of this guy. The stranger hummed in response, glancing at the weapons lining the walls.

"Well, I just thought I'd have a little look around. How much is the sword on the left?"

"Two thousand." Sicheng answered bluntly.

"How about... The pair of daggers?" The stranger still had that annoying grin on his face, a permanent look of smugness.

"Seven hundred." 

"Just out of interest, which weapon do you think would give me the highest chance of winning the tournament?" The question caught Sicheng off guard, as he'd been ready to just give him a list of all the prices instead of answering to each one he asked. He studied the expectant expression on the stranger’s face, before answering. 

"I think what's more important is knowing how to use the weapon." Sicheng responded. "I doubt you'd be able to use those daggers, they take a while to master-" He broke off when the stranger grabbing the daggers and flipping them around in his hands, doing a nifty little trick that would probably dangerous if it went wrong.

"Might buy them." The stranger pondered, looking at them with vague interest. "How much did you say, six hundred?"

"Seven." Sicheng corrected.

"It could be six."

"It isn't. I'm not giving you a discount, seven hundred or nothing."

"Fine, fine, always worth a try, though." He counted out the money in his hands and handed it over reluctantly. Sicheng grabbed it quickly before he could change his mind or steal it back. He was used to pickpockets and their clever little tricks, so never took any chances. 

"Maybe I'll see you again soon." The stranger said suggestively, smirking.

"I doubt it." Sicheng responded wearily, wishing he would just leave.

"I could keep coming back here." Please don't.

"Have a good day." Sicheng had to hold in a groan, saying the words in the hope he would go. It seemed to have some effect, but god, it taken a while to get through to him.

"Oh, I will. Goodbye!" The stranger walked out of the shop, and Sicheng let out a huge sigh he'd been holding for the entire encounter. That had been more tiring than physical labour.

As he looked down at his work table, he realised with a pang that something was missing. His sword. He swore under his breath. The stranger had managed to take it from right under his nose. It was his most prized possession, and the bastard had gone and stolen it.

It was old and rather blunt, but it had a large sentimental value to it. It was the first sword he'd ever crafted, with the supervision of his father before he'd passed away. It held the very little memories he still had of him, and Sicheng felt as though he couldn't live without it. It was worth more to him than any precious metals, no coin would amount to how much it was worth in his heart.

He’d struggled ever since his father had died, left him to run the shop on his own. The only thing that he found solace in was the memories attached to the sword. It was what kept him going through each day; imagining his father was by his side, that comforting presence next to him, just like before. 

It turned out that he would definitely be seeing the stranger again, as he would not rest for even a second until he got his sword back.

\---------------------------------------------  
Taeyong set out into the streets of the city with a great feeling of dread. The soldiers accompanying him didn't seem too cheerful either, grumbling complaints amongst one another. His father had asked him to oversee the tax collection now that it had been raised again, and Taeyong knew it wasn't going to be easy once they got to the poorer outskirts of the city. Peasants were struggling to live, they hadn't even been able to pay the former tax. They would get extremely angry - understandably - whenever the tax was raised, and Taeyong hoped he would be able to avoid their wrath today. He didn't fancy another rake thrown at his head.

It started off fairly well, the richer individuals hardly noticing the change. It was only a small amount for them, it didn't affect them in any way. But it got harder as they went on, the withering glares became more prominent.

They were near the edges of the city when a slightly familiar face was behind one of the doors he'd knocked on. If took him a few seconds to pin it down, but Taeyong realised it was that man he had released before. A wave of guilt built up inside of him, he could see how poor he was, he wouldn't be able to afford it.

"The tax has been raised." Taeyong had never felt so guilty in all the times he'd had to say those words. The man's face was filled with despair.

"I can't afford it, I don't have anything, please-" He pleaded, and in a split second Taeyong decided what he was going to do. He turned away from the man and addressed the soldiers.

"We've got everything now." He said, and as they began to head back towards him, the man whispered a thank you behind him. Somehow even with that, he still felt guilty.

As Taeyong made to leave, a sound caught his ears, and he sidestepped, to witness a knife soaring past where he'd been standing a second ago. Instinctively, the soldiers surrounded him in a protective circle.

"Who threw that?" One of them asked roughly. There was no response from the people, who were keeping to the edges of the street with terrified glances. "You'll get a lesser sentence if you just confess now!"

No one stepped up, and Taeyong felt what was almost like embarrassment. He didn't need to be protected, he could fight for himself. He didn't want to sit back and let other people fight his battles. It would make him look weak, and though he knew that he was, he didn't want to show it.

"It's probably nothing," He muttered, not at all believing his words, "Let's just leave it."

"If you say so, sir, but your safety is of great importance." The soldier replied.

"And I'm fine, aren't I?" He started walking back to the palace, trying to rid the feeling of dread within himself. He couldn't help but feel that something was going on, something serious. It wasn't someone angry about taxes, they wouldn't be stupid enough to do something like that. No, someone had just thrown a knife at him, and he felt absolutely certain that they had meant to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter is late, I’ve been very busy over christmas. We’ve got so much leftover food to get through, it’s kind of funny how you make all of it and barely eat half of it on christmas day. I hope every one enjoyed their christmas or any other occasion you celebrate. Also hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I’ll see ya in 2019!
> 
> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	7. How Things Change

Renjun was alone. He had no one to talk to; no one to laugh with, no one to cry with. No one who would be there for him. Every day he wandered through the market aimlessly, feeling a painful stab of envy each time he saw the two boys who worked at the fish stall. They were young and carefree, they joked with each other without any worries interrupting their lives. He always let his eyes linger on them for a little longer than was normal, wishing he was with them, and sometimes pretending he was. Letting a smile form on his lips, imagining that he was laughing along with them. But he could never keep it up for long. He always returned back to reality, to the truth. 

His father was an important royal official, his time always consumed by endless work for the king. He'd recently fallen out of favour with the king, and it had been putting more and more stress upon his shoulders. Renjun hated seeing him like that, on the rare occasions that he did see him. Truth be told, he didn't know his father that well, but somehow still loved him dearly, for doing everything he could to earn enough money for the two of them to get by.

As for Renjun's mother, she had passed away only recently. He'd been closer to her, and spent most of his time with her before she died. She'd teach him new skills like painting or archery, and he'd never felt alone when he was with her. But now she was no longer by his side to fill the hole in his heart, and his loneliness was growing larger each day.

Occupying himself with other activities hadn't taken his attention away from it. He sometimes forgot he'd entered the tournament, as the match had gone by so quickly; it was hard to believe it had even happened, and wasn't just another figment of his overactive imagination. He dreaded the next match, knowing that from what he could remember, he'd won the last one by sheer dumb luck. Someone in the crowd had thrown something at his opponent, and he'd used their distraction to his advantage, despite the unfairness. 

As he walked along the streets, he'd let himself fall into his thoughts. He was so preoccupied with what he was thinking, that he wasn't looking where he was going, and bumped into someone, knocking them to the ground. He started panicking when he recognised him as one of the boys who worked at the fish stall.

"I'm so sorry, completely my fault, I wasn't looking where I was going! Are you alright? Let me help you up." He offered his hand to the boy, who chuckled, and took it, pulling himself to his feet. His hand was warm, and had a strong grip.

"Don't worry. I'm fine. No need to get so worked up about it." He smiled in the way Renjun had seen him do before, using his eyes as well as his mouth. He knew that look all too well, and knew it was only saved for the shared jokes with the other boy, for when he sincerely meant to smile.

"Sorry..." Renjun muttered, a smile on his own face. 

"There's no need to keep apologising, either." He flushed, and looked away. "Say, do you think you could help me carry those, if it's not any trouble for you?" The boy pointed to a pile of empty crates on the side of the street. Renjun nodded eagerly, wanting to help.

They picked up two crates each, and carried them back to the stall, only a few metres away. The other boy leant against the side of the stall, picking at his fingers and staring listlessly at the sky. He snapped out of his trance when he heard the crates slam down on the floor, and looked at Renjun with interest.

"Who's this?" The boy asked.

"Oh, I, uh... Didn't ask your name." The other stammered.

"I'm Renjun." Renjun meekly introduced himself, and jumped slightly when the boy held his hand out to shake.

"I'm Jaemin. It's nice to meet you." They shook hands, his slightly different; colder, thinner. "Sorry if Jeno bothered you. Honestly, he bumps into you and then asks you to help him carry the crates because he can't be bothered to walk a few steps twice-"

"Maybe you should do it next time, then. I've done my fair share of work today." Jeno said, putting his hands on his hips, and then turned to Renjun. “Since he never does anything, we could do with an extra pair of hands here. What do you say about working with us, Renjun?”

“I’d love that.”  
\---------------------------------------------  
"Johnny!" Mark called out his friend's name as he entered the blacksmith's, inhaling the smell of smoke and hearing the clang of metal on metal. It wasn't the most pleasant sound, but it wasn't any worse than the buzzing in his ears. His head was pounding, and all he needed right know was to talk to the only person he could trust.

"What is it?" Johnny stopped hammering a sword into shape despite his the protests of his boss, and strode over to Mark. His oversized gloves were covered in black stains, and his forehead was beaded with sweat, that had soaked the tips of his hair. He looked expectantly at Mark, who let out a large sigh, before speaking.

"I got kicked out of the royal legion." He muttered, his mind still whirling from what had happened. He wasn't used to saying the words, and saying them only made it more real than it already was. He let his eyes drift over the contents of the blacksmith's, trying not to think too hard about it. An axe shaped like a crescent moon hung on the wall, illuminated by the firelight of the forge. He looked back up at Johnny, the older boy's face contorted in outrage. He'd expected nothing less.

"You're kidding, right?" Johnny asked, but Mark shook his head. "I swear I'm gonna shove a smoking hot sword up their condescending asses. That's the  
only sword they'll ever be receiving from me again, unless they want one speared through their chests as w-"

"Don't do that. You'll only end up getting yourself into trouble." Mark replied, worried about how impulsive Johnny could be, doing things without thinking about the consequences. It had gotten him into trouble too many times to count. 

"Chill, I was joking. Alas, those are things I can only dream of doing. So what did you do? Why'd they kick you out?" Johnny said teasingly, clearly trying to cheer Mark up. Unfortunately it did little to help, only reminding Mark of his anger towards the legion. Their harsh rules and regulations that were impossible to bend, like solid steel.

"Apparently my performance at the tournament yesterday wasn't up to scratch. My blows were 'amateur' and 'weak'. Of course the overall result doesn't matter to them, no, they need perfection from start to finish." He paused, sighing. "I was getting kind of tired of it anyway." Tired of the rules that dictated his life. Tired of the stuffy uniform, the crappy accommodation, the hours of practice, practice, practice.

"What are you gonna do now then?" Johnny asked, a question that sent Mark's head into a tornado of confusion again. What would he do? Where would he go? Being in the legion had dictated his life because it was his life, and he couldn't imagine it any differently.

"I don't know." He finally responded. "I'll just have to see if something else comes up, I guess."

"Hey, you can spend the night at my place if you don't have anywhere to go. Better than wasting money on an inn room, right?" Johnny offered, seeming to sense Mark's panic, and he immediately felt relief.

"That sounds great. Thanks."

There was a comfortable silence between the two of them, occupied by the cracking of the fire, and the whistling wind outside. The distant sound of Johnny's boss shouting resurfaced, and Johnny let out a sigh, before speaking again.

"Duty calls. I'll see ya."

\---------------------------------------------  
_A rubbish catch_ , Thought Yuta as he made his way back to the ship, disappointed by the crappy sword he'd nicked. He should've looked, but the opportunity had presented itself and he stole it without a proper glance. It wouldn't have gone unnoticed by the blacksmith either, so that was yet another person probably demanding his head on a silver platter. Although he hadn't really seemed the type. The job of a blacksmith didn't even really suit him, as to Yuta he came across as rather weak, for lack of better words. Perhaps was more that his hands seemed to be quite gentle, and really, it was impossible to imagine him even handling a weapon. Or maybe it was the brightness in his eyes, the way the light reflected prettily upon them. Either way, Yuta concluded the blacksmith wouldn't want him dead, at the very least.

He thought of the sword again, and how the bloody hell would he get rid of it? Maybe he could give it to some random person on the streets.

"Hey you, do you want this sword?" No response. "Anyone want a sword?" Dirty looks we're thrown his way. "It's made of _silver_ , it's a family heirloom, anyone want it?" No one seemed to believe his bluff. Mothers were quickly ushering their children away, and the merchants started packing away their goods. Was it that obvious that he had stolen it?

"I'll take it." An old man hobbled over to him, holding out a knobbly hand. He looked very shifty and suspicious, but then again, didn't Yuta? Just because someone looked shifty and suspicious, it didn't make them a bad person, necessarily. Just a slightly-dodgy-and-should-probably-be-avoided kind of person. 

"Great, wanna give me some money for it?" Yuta asked, flashing a smile.

"Nope."

"Yeah, didn't think so." He handed the sword over to the man, who snatched it and hobbled away again. Yuta made a mental note to stay as healthy as he could so that he would never hobble when he was older. 

He made his way back to the ship, slightly nervous of what the crew would say when they saw how worthless the few items he'd collected today were. They already thought he was stupid to compete in the tournament, and he'd been constantly mocked before that, just because he looked easy to pick on. 

"That's crap, that is." The captain said with a dangerous look on her face as she inspected the full array of items. "If you ain't up to standard tomorrow, you ain't got no place on this ship."

Yuta nodded, swallowing down any protests or replies, sensing her fury was one second away from exploding. He felt nervous, for the first time in his life. He had relied on being part of the crew, and he wouldn't last long without them. And clearly his pickpocketing skills were lacking, too. Maybe it was because he had started to think about the morality of what he was doing. Sure, stealing money wasn't so bad, but what if it was from a mother with several starving children? Thoughts like that had been going through his mind lately, and he couldn't get rid of them.

It wasn't his business, he told himself. But he couldn't keep lying to himself forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I could bore you with excuses but you probably don’t want to hear them. Long story short, my life sucks and it’s caused me to be unmotivated. Nonetheless, hope you enjoyed this belated update!
> 
> \- Edited on 26/3/19 -


	8. The Art Of A True Hero

The sun was setting, pink and orange hues glowing across the edge of the sky. Doyoung was sitting in the training grounds, resting after a hard day's practice with the royal legion. He'd already been exhausted, but managed to stay concentrated and keep his fighting consistent. They'd been training more and more lately, preparing for the inevitable war with the Cruzians. Quite a few people didn't have the ability to handle it, or had people they cared about, so quit. Doyoung had the latter of those, but he'd never even considered quitting once. He was too focused on everything, too focused on getting it right.

He thought he'd been the only one to stay behind, but was mistaken when he saw two higher ups approaching him. They were large, burly men, notorious for bullying lower ranks. They used their size and title to terrify mere teenagers, ruining the stability that those younger ones had. Whether they meant to or not, they were turning courageous men into grovelling cowards.

"What was up with your balance in practice today, huh? You been sneaking ale during the breaks?" One of them sneered, revealing rotten, yellow teeth, clearly destroyed by alcohol; Doyoung hadn't known that they were also hypocrites. And whilst they were higher ranks, and his job was on the line, he wasn't about to let himself be ridiculed by a pair of old drunks.

"Well, if I did, I wouldn't have taken it from your store. I don't like cheap ale." Doyoung said, assuming a face of innocence, knowing full well how to get under their skin. Sure enough, the man's moustache bristled, and his face reddened.

"You ain't got the authority to talk to me in that way. You best apologise and be on your way before I start losing my patience." His voice was dangerously soft, as he leaned closer to Doyoung, his stinking breath on his face.

"I don't really like apologising to people who haven't earned it." Doyoung replied coolly, looking straight into the man's eyes. He could feel his own heart pounding despite the confidence he displayed, knowing that he was treading on very thin ice.

"You're well smart, ain't ya?" The other one said in a low voice. "We don't tolerate people like you. People like you aren't fit to be a part of the legion." And there went Doyoung's chance of keeping his job after this encounter. He sighed.

"At least I don't rely on my size to intimidate people." He muttered bitterly.

Crack. They'd taken hold of his arms, slamming him against the wall. Something was broken, Doyoung bit his lip as pain surged through his body. He tried to fight back, but he couldn't even get out of their grip. His vision went hazy as tears welled up in his eyes, and his head throbbed, dizzy from the pain. They took hold of his neck, blocking his windpipe and causing him to choke for air. Panic took control of his brain. He couldn't breathe, he needed air, he was going to die. 

But then a voice rang out across the training grounds, saying words that he couldn't hear because of the buzzing in his ears. The men let go of him, and he gulped for air, taking in deep breaths, before looking at his rescuer. 

He had blood red hair, styled neatly; sharp cheekbones and jawline; eyes that were full of life. He was short, but the men cowered at the sight of him. Doyoung concentrated as his vision cleared, knowing that the face was familiar. And then he realised when the man spoke again.

"I don't want to see either of you two within the castle ground again. If I do, you'll be executed." His flaming eyes bore into them, and they nodded, running out of the training grounds terrified. Doyoung grinned - well, grimaced. Only a prince had the power to make grown men feel true fear. "Are you alright?" Prince Taeyong turned to him, eyes full of concern now.

"Might have a few bruises. And broken bones." Doyoung managed say breathlessly, before passing out.  
\---------------------------------------------  
Night had fallen. The streets were dark and cold, devoid of the usual bustle of the market, emptied of people. Kun's breath swirled out in front of him in clouds of moisture, and he shivered slightly, teeth chattering. His thin cloak did little to shield him from the icy air, and he wished that he could get home faster so that he wouldn't have to stay out in the cold. He smiled at the comforting thought of his mother chiding him for being out in the dark - despite the fact that for a long time, he’d been old enough to look after himself - and that thought only deepened his desire to get home.

As he continued walking, he heard shouting, from a small side street. He crept down in the direction he heard the voices from, careful to stick to the shadows. Immediately he pressed himself up against a wall when he caught sight of a group of thieves. They'd cornered a boy at the end of the street, demanding money, and punching him when he refused.

"I don't have any money, please, I'm just a servant." The boy pleaded in a small voice. The thieves did not believe him though, and continued attacking. Kun felt anger and worry build up inside him; he had to do something! But even if he and the boy fought together, they'd be heavily outnumbered. _But since when did numbers matter?_ Said a small voice in the back of his head. 

"Just this once." He muttered in response, and walked out to where he could see them better, raising his hands out in front of him. He concentrated hard, closing his eyes. He had no idea whether it would work, but he channelled the energy inside of him to the tips of his fingertips, and out into the air. A rushing warm sensation filled his body, before disappearing and leaving him cold again. He lowered his hands, and opened his eyes slowly. The thieves lay crumpled on the floor, and the boy stared at him in awe.

"That was magic, wasn't it?" He inquired, his voice still quiet and soft. Kun froze, his heart hammering against his chest and his breath hitched in his throat. Magic was rare nowadays, and it wasn’t technically illegal, but people didn’t tend to see it as a good thing. Rather an evil that should be purged, before it did any damage. It only made sense that Kun strongly disagreed. On the rare occasions he did use magic, it was only with good intentions in mind. However he’d just knocked several people out, and whilst he had spared the boy from further attack, he doubted anyone would see it that way. He was lucky that no one did see it, other than the boy. Was there some way he could make him forget?

“You didn’t see anything, you didn’t see magic. No one else was here.” Kun said firmly, trying to put power into the words. The boy looked at him in a baffled way, before responding.

“It’s okay. I’m not afraid, and I’m not going to tell anyone either. You saved my life. Thank you.” The boy said the words with such sincerity that they touched Kun’s heart. He’d never known anyone with such an accepting attitude towards magic. The boy seemed sensitive yet calm, he wasn’t _afraid_ , he wasn’t _prejudiced_ , he took it in his stride without batting an eye. “I’m Jungwoo.”

“I’m Kun.” Kun replied, a small smile forming on his lips. “Please don’t thank me. I couldn’t have just stood by and let them beat you up.”

“I’m used to things like that. It’s quite different for someone to step in. I appreciate it a lot.” Jungwoo replied, and Kun’s smile fell. He felt a pang of sympathy when he remembered the boy had said he was a servant earlier, and wished he could do something to help. But he couldn’t. Not because it was beyond the limit of his magic, but because it was beyond the limit of what he could do as a simple human being, magic or not. It wasn’t his place to mess with things that didn’t concern him, no matter how much he cared. Servants supposedly could quit if they wanted to, but often their masters drilled a mindset into them that if they left they wouldn’t have anything, they wouldn’t be anything. It made Kun sick.

“If you ever, uh, need any help again, I live just at the end of the main street.” Kun offered the only thing he could, trying to express his willingness to help the boy. Jungwoo bit his lip, blinking away tears furiously, whilst nodding and thanking Kun once more. He then walked off, leaving Kun with an aching heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m getting closer to having written each character! Also, I’d like to say that you can leave questions about things you are confused about in the comments. I did sort of plunge you headfirst into this fantasy world without much explanation, so if you’d like to know more about the rules and society, or if time isn’t presented clearly enough, please just ask! I’d also like to thank everyone for the support so far, it brings me so much joy. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!


	9. Pheasant Plucking

Xiaojun ran, his body aching and demanding rest. He'd been running for a few minutes but still wasn't used to the fresh air blowing on his face, a pleasant change from that murky cell. Yes, he had missed this kind of freedom, the freedom to run with no limit to how far he could go. The further he went, the dirtier and poorer the streets became, and in the distance he could see where they ended completely, turning into fields and woodland. He only had a little further to go, soon he'd be at the edge of the kingdom and he could get out safely.

Suddenly a hand grabbed his collar, and dragged him into one of the side streets. Once he saw who the hand belonged to, he shrugged it off, fuming, as he looked at the impossibly calm face of his friend.

"You said it was outside of the kingdom." He said, feeling that he should still be running, that he wasn't yet safe.

"I said that because I knew you wouldn't come with me otherwise." Hendery replied, every word he said full of sincerity, which infuriated Xiaojun. "I promise it's safe. I can prove that it's safe."

"Really." Xiaojun muttered, rolling his eyes. Hendery ignored him.

"Do you remember that boy you found and released?" Xiaojun nodded, now serious, but confused. "He came running out to me, he was so scared. He couldn't even speak properly, he couldn't get the words out. So I told him I would hide him so that they wouldn't find him. _And_ _they_ _never_ _have_. There's the proof for you."

"But that's just luck." Xiaojun replied. "And trust me, I will only ruin the luck you have. Look, I wanted to go alone, I never wanted you to help me."

"You wouldn't have escaped if it wasn't for my help."

"I'd have found a way. I'd have found a way to do it without even leaving the palace walls." Hendery was about to interrupt but Xiaojun glared at him. "This is where you don't understand, and you _never_ will. It isn't _escaping_ that matters to me. It's killing _him_ ," He spat out the word with disgust, "That matters. If I die afterwards, so be it."

"Xiaojun, I'm not letting you do this alone. You _can't_ carry that burden on your own. I won't let you." There was a brief silence. "Please. I can help, I can keep you safe."

"Show me where it is, and I'll judge if it's safe myself." Xiaojun responded.

"Thank you." Hendery muttered quietly, understanding Xiaojun's way of accepting his help, although he would never say it outright. He led Xiaojun through the streets, sticking to the edges, the shadows, so that it was harder for them to be seen. Xiaojun was still wary, because deep down he was afraid of being caught, and taken back to that awful place.

The cold stone walls that were constantly damp, the tiny window at the top, the metals bars constantly making him feel dizzy as he looked out, waiting for someone to appear. It was hard to believe that he'd spent five years in that cell and had only escaped from it about half an hour ago; it was also easy to believe, considering that he was expecting to wake up any moment now, still trapped. But no, he was breathing in fresh air, he was walking on cobbled streets, he could feel the difference clearly.

"In here." Hendery gestured to a rather worn down house at the end of the street. The walls were dirty and the door looked like it would fall apart if Xiaojun poked it. But Hendery pushed it open and it miraculously held as they stepped inside.

The interior was just as drab, a scratched wooden table and chairs in the middle of the first room. There was a candle alight on top of the table, dripping a vast amount of wax onto it. On the left wall was a fireplace, unlit but emitting smoke as if it had just been put out. There was a door on the back wall and the right wall, presumably leading to the bedrooms. It was all so simple and normal, it seemed impossible that Hendery had hidden that boy here.

"Yangyang!" Hendery called, knocking on the first door. After a few seconds it opened and a very dishevelled, sleepy boy came out. He looked at Hendery with an exasperated look, but his eyes widened when they found Xiaojun. "This is Xiaojun. You might recognise him."

"You." He said quietly. "You set me free." He seemed very overwhelmed to be facing his saviour.

"I did." Xiaojun replied very simply, not wanting to talk of that night. Not wanting to think of it. A very uncomfortable silence fell between the three of them, and Xiaojun thought of how surreal this situation would have seemed back in his cell a mere day ago.

"I'm sorry." Yangyang suddenly blurted out, his expression one of anguish. He looked down at the floor in an almost ashamed way before continuing. "I'm sorry I wasn't who you were looking for. If you hadn't wasted your time on me then-"

"Stop it! Stop apologising, it's not your fault." Xiaojun looked him straight in the eyes as he said it. "And don't talk about that night to me, ever."

"You can sleep in my room." Hendery said after a very long silence, ushering Xiaojun into the second room. He wasn't exactly unfazed by that conversation, but he didn't seem to have expected any less or more.

By the time night turned to dawn, Xiaojun had forgotten about the encounter, and merely relished the comfort and warmth of a bed.

\---------------------------------------------

"Remember to turn the chicken over! No, the herbs are for flavouring, _you_ _do_ _not_ _eat_ _them_ _you_ _complete_ _imbecile_. Chenle stop _laughing_ and do your work properly, or else I'll personally make sure you can never laugh again!"

The kitchens were chaos as usual. Servants running left and right to make sure food wasn't even the slightest bit over cooked. Cook not helping by barking at all of them with her booming voice, scaring the life out of the younger ones. But Haechan knew her threats were empty, as did several others, and thus each one set off more laughing. Chenle was always caught, mostly because he had a very distinctive, _very_ _annoying_ laugh. He sounded like a mouse that was being strangled.

Haechan focused on plucking the dead pheasant in front of him, extremely repulsed despite doing it on a regular basis. Chenle's squeaky laughter was still echoing in his ears and he had half the mind to go over and whack him. Instead he resorted to muttering as many swear words as he could string together under his breath.

"Someone take over the pheasant plucking, Haechan's too slow, we need it done _now_!" Haechan was shoved out of the way by an older girl, and he rolled his eyes. "Chul is ill, someone take this-" Cook was waving about a small bottle. "Haechan, you take this to the young prince!" She spotted him and thrust it into his hands.

"Which one?" Haechan asked.

"WHICH ONE DO YOU _THINK_ I MEAN WHEN I SAY YOUNG?"

" _Okay_ , just making sure."

"And remember to tell him it's been prescribed by the court physician, he'll know what you mean!"

And so Haechan set off, weaving through the busy hallways of the palace. He had to walk several flights of stairs to reach the prince's room; why was it so high up? He nearly collapsed after the last flight, but caught his breath and knocked on the door of the prince's room.

"Come in." Haechan entered, and was shocked by the mess that he encountered when he entered. Wasn't someone supposed to clean all this- Oh. He recalled what Cook had said in passing: Chul was ill. Haechan regained his composure and held out the bottle to the young prince, who was sitting at a table looking over scrolls.

"Prescribed by the court physician, my lord." He said, and like Cook had said, Jisung understood immediately and nodded. Haechan was about to leave when Jisung addressed him.

"Where's Chul?" He asked, obviously noticing the disappearance of his manservant.

"He's ill, sir." Haechan replied, a strange feeling of dread building up inside of him.

"Why?" Jisung asked, clearly only half listening to what Haechan said as he continued to pour over the scrolls.

"Well, I'd only be able to answer that if I was one of the higher powers that brought it upon him." Haechan spoke without thinking, and then realised what he'd just said. Shit.

"Ha, that is true." Jisung said with a smile, and Haechan was extremely relieved. The punishment for not even addressing someone of royalty with sir or any variant was severe. "In that case, you can clean my room then." Yep, that was what he'd been dreading. He'd rather pluck a pheasant. He couldn't believe there was this much mess when Chul was missing for only the morning, and felt great respect that he dealt with this every day.

He started cleaning the room as quickly as he could, desperate to get back to the kitchens where the work was moderately bearable. It was difficult, seeing as he inhaled a huge amount of dust and sneezed every three seconds. He was surprised Jisung didn't tell him to shut up, but he seemed to have forgotten Haechan was there, so absorbed in whatever he was reading.

It was nearly midday when Haechan finished, dizzy from exhaustion and very pissed off that he still had work to do. This morning's work was worth two days of work. He glanced over at Jisung to discover he hadn't moved at all, still reading. He slipped out without him noticing, and made his way back to the kitchens. So many stairs yet again, and he nearly fell down them from stumbling. He was nearly there when he ran into Chenle.

"Oh, Haechan, perfect!" He exclaimed when he saw him. "Help me muck out the stables, won't you?"

Haechan let out a groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very late, sorry! I was working very hard trying to figure out the plot for the three new members, and I finally found something I am very happy with. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think in the comments!


	10. Hiding

"What a lovely fucking day." Jaemin commented as he squinted up at the sun, a hand shielding his eyes. Jeno noticed the way the corners of his eyes crinkled, and how the sunlight on his face made his skin practically glow. Renjun raised an eyebrow at Jeno, who nodded back at him. _Yes, he's always like this._

"Jaemin, you can show Renjun how to deal with customers, handle the fish, etcetera." Jeno said. "I'm going to get this morning's delivery."

"Do I have to?" Jaemin groaned.

"Yes, you do. Or I'll lock you out of your house."

"You couldn't... You probably could, to be honest." Jaemin pouted. "Fine."

"If he gets too annoying, you are entitled to slap him." Jeno said to Renjun, who was looking amused but also nervous. As he walked away, Jeno caught a snatch of the proceeding conversation.

"Okay, so there is no specific way to handle the fish, Jeno's talking bullshit..." The voice grew fainter as he walked round the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, Jeno stopped and let out a sigh. Thank goodness for Jaemin's obliviousness. Thank goodness.

The delivery wasn't due for another half an hour (trust Jaemin not to know that), and so Jeno didn't really have a reason to leave. At least to anyone other than himself, he did not have a reason to leave. But within the raging depths of his mind, he had a reason. He didn't know how much longer he could withstand this. Because god, Jaemin was truly oblivious. He couldn't take a single hint, and so Jeno was left to wallow in his misery and heartache.

To be fair, Jeno was extremely harsh to him, but he didn't know how else to act. He didn't know how people acted when they liked someone. His parents constantly shouted at each other, and whilst he knew _that_ wasn't how to express love, he didn't exactly know what was. So each day he had an internal struggle with himself; was today the day he told Jaemin how nice his eyelashes were? But every time he even thought of something like that, he lost his nerve.

He acted as he had always acted, he treated Jaemin like the annoying friend he was, because he didn't know what else to do. He was scared, and sometimes he even questioned if his feelings were real. If he didn't know anything about love, how did he know if he was experiencing it? But there was something up with the butterflies in his stomach, the way his eyes were always drawn to Jaemin, and probably also the fact that Jaemin was _so_ beautiful. He was so beautiful that it hurt. 

To Jeno, Jaemin was like a never-ending headache. Yes, because he was foolish and annoying, but also how attracted Jeno was to that foolishness was a constant throbbing pain. His hair was always messy but it looked nice and Jeno loved it and he wanted to run his hands through it? Jaemin's laugh made Jeno want to laugh too, his smile made Jeno want to smile with him, and his most common expression of frowning made Jeno want to frown too, out of pure frustration. He wanted to know why Jaemin thought the world was out to get him, and why he quite often just wasn't bothered to do anything.

Jeno definitely had more questions than was normal about Jaemin. What if one day he noticed? What if he didn't feel the same way? What if he _hated_ Jeno? These were questions that Jeno frequently asked himself, to no avail, as they remained unanswered.

After at least ten minutes of standing there in a daze, Jeno decided he may as well go down to the harbour instead of getting too caught up in thoughts of Jaemin. He had gone to pick up the delivery to _avoid_ Jaemin, and yet he was still there like a shadow in Jeno's mind, _always_ there, somehow. It was rather infuriating. 

He heard the usual bustle of merchants unloading their wares, and scanned the line of ships for their supplier. Of course, the familiar ship was not in sight. What he did notice though, were the black sails on one of the ships, casting a shadow onto the harbour. _Pirates_ , he thought, unnerved at the thought of them here. As far as he was concerned, there was no place for lazy thieves who couldn't get a proper job in Avaria. But he was still intimidated by their sheer skill in pickpocketing, and how it was impossible to notice until they were long gone.

He noticed a young man jump off the ship, and walk in Jeno's general direction. He shouldn't have come to the harbour early, he was a prime target, for he was standing around doing nothing. He walked around, looking at the ships, trying to look occupied. There was a very strong smell coming from a ship bringing spices, and it made him feel slightly light headed. He walked away from that ship, but it seemed all of the ships along this side of the harbour were full of exotic spices, and he couldn't escape the dizziness.

He turned around and started walking to the other side of the harbour, to wait in the area their fish supplier usually showed up. It stank of fish down there, and there was really no escaping it. The harbour just smelled horrible, the strong spices mixing with the horrible salty fish. It was disgusting, and Jeno felt worse and worse as each second passed by. No wonder Jaemin was always reluctant to pick up deliveries.

Someone bumped into him, knocking him over. What was with people lately, first Renjun, now this? He expected the person to have walked off, but he stood there holding his hand out, just like Renjun had.

"I'm sorry, let me help you up." He said, pulling Jeno to his feet. Jeno looked at his face and clothes, and a nagging suspicion rose in his mind.

"Give it back." He said to the stranger. "Whatever you stole, give it back."

"Why do you think I stole something?" The stranger assumed a face of innocence, but Jeno could tell he was nervous behind it. He checked his pockets, and found he was missing a few gold coins.

"Well, I had three gold coins in my pocket just a few seconds ago. I won't repeat myself again, give them back." 

The stranger reluctantly handed him the money, and Jeno glared at him. He seemed quite amused by this, and it was irritating beyond belief.

"I'll be on my way, then." The stranger made to leave, but Jeno stood in front of him, blocking his way. "What?"

"Don't ever steal from me again." Jeno had at least a few centimetres on the stranger, but he still wasn't intimidated. He just chuckled lightly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Gotta make a living somehow, right?" At this point, Jeno had, quite frankly, had enough. He walked away, on edge and constantly glancing around. That had been too close, and it had made him more anxious than he'd thought possible. His hands were wet with sweat and yet again he thought about how he'd come here to escape nervousness and rapid heartbeats. 

But it seemed like he had a second shadow, it overlapped with the first but one thing was certain. The anxiety followed him wherever he went.  
\---------------------------------------------  
"Stealing again?" Sicheng asked, walking over to the thief.

"No, I was helping this young man to his feet and he can definitely tell you that- Oh. He's gone." The thief looked annoyed. "How can I help you, handsome blacksmith?"

"Well, I'd like my sword back." Sicheng said calmly, telling himself not to be swayed by _anything_ he said. The thief furrowed his eyebrows, thinking, before an expression of realisation dawned on his face.

"Ah, that... That was a nice sword. Have you lost it?" To put it lightly, he was very bad at acting. Sicheng wondered how he hadn't seen right through him the first time they'd met.

"I know you stole it, stop stalling for time." 

"The thing is, you see, I may or may not have given it away-" Sicheng's heart stopped. Given it away? His sword, _his sword_ , gone?

"You what?" He said softly. Dangerously softly. He sure as hell hoped he was joking.

"Oh, wow, I need to go now-" The thief tried to walk away, but Sicheng grabbed his shoulders.

"You gave it _away_?" He breathed, looking him right in the eyes.

"Well..." It came out as more of a squeak. The thief was hesitating, and Sicheng glared harder. "Yes..."

Sicheng let go of him, letting his arms drop to his sides loosely. His sword was gone. Gone forever, never to be retrieved. It felt like his whole world had come crashing down. He bit his lip, staring up at the blurry sky, trying to breathe properly but all that came out were sobs. He felt the tears running down his face in rivers of despair, because _how_ could the thing he treasured most be gone? 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and was surprised to see the thief attempting to comfort him. 

"Hey, it's just a sword." He said with a nervous smile, probably trying to be sympathetic, but he was so rubbish at it that it was almost funny. Almost, if he hadn't been the one to steal it in the first place.

"It's so much more than that." Sicheng said through his sobs, and the thief nodded, encouraging him to go on. "It was the first sword I made, with my father before he passed away. It's the only thing I can remember him by and now it's gone." Why was he telling him this? He was the one who stole it.

"Hey, how about I buy you a drink?" The thief suggested, and Sicheng laughed, unable to hold it back anymore.

"I don't drink," He replied. "And I doubt you'd even be able to afford it."

"Bold thing to assume," The thief said. "But fair enough, considering what I do for a living. I do have enough money to afford it, and whilst you may not think so, there's nothing like a good old bottle of rum to cheer you up. So what do you say, handsome blacksmith?"

"Sure." Sicheng said, sniffing a little, but a lot more calm now. "Why not?"  
\---------------------------------------------  
Yangyang blearily opened his eyes, staring at his surroundings with confusion. He lay in the corner of a dark room, a musty smell hanging in the air. There were no windows, it seemed there was no light anywhere. There was a trapdoor on the ceiling that he noticed and only a little light came through a tiny crack. He had to strain his eyes to see, but he saw Xiaojun was in here too, sitting next to him. He sat up, thinking how and why was he down here? Then he remembered.

There had been knocking on the door, and Xiaojun had ran over to him, opening the trapdoor and pulling him down as he jumped down himself. Yangyang was surprised he hadn't sustained any major injuries from how high the door was. It was self-explanatory why the two of them were down there; they were both practically fugitives, one having broken out only yesterday. 

"I hate this." Xiaojun muttered as soon as he realised Yangyang was awake. "I _hate_ hiding. I mean, did you ever leave this house the whole time you've been here?" The question hit him hard.

"No." Yangyang replied, suddenly realising why he still felt trapped. "But if I had I'd probably be back in chains-"

"That's what Hendery tells you." Xiaojun said. "But he's too careful, too paranoid. Sometimes you have to live life on the edge, you have to take risks. Risks within reason, but still risks, nonetheless."

"He kept me safe..." Yangyang protested to Xiaojun's suggestion. "I can't just go behind his back after everything he's done for me."

There was silence between the two of them, and the murmur of voices above got louder, there were yells and cries. Xiaojun stood up at the sound of a crash.

"Shit." He hissed. "Shit, shit, shit! I can't help him if I'm stuck down here protecting my own worthless life!" He was whispering, but it felt as if he was shouting, his voice was so pained and desperate. "That's it, I'm going up." He made to open the trapdoor, but Yangyang grabbed his arm.

"Don't." He said through gritted teeth. "You have to trust him." Xiaojun's expressions hardened at that particular word. "You have to let him handle it. It's us he's protecting and it'll all be in vain if we make stupid decisions and get ourselves killed!" 

Xiaojun shook his arm off, but from his expression Yangyang knew he had successfully convinced him not to go up. It was a pitiful, defeated expression, shadows in his eyes, shadows of things he'd been through, unimaginable things. Yangyang _did_ pity Xiaojun, he had a hazy idea of the pain he must feel, but knew that he couldn't compare it to his own pain. They were different types of pain, and he couldn't decide which of them was worse.

More shouting continued upstairs, and Xiaojun was staring at the floor, trembling violently. Yangyang was just as worried, and he wanted to comfort Xiaojun but knew that they hadn't even reached a point of basic trust, so there was no point trying, he'd only push him away. Another way in which Yangyang pitied him.

The voices quietened down, and eventually ceased completely. Xiaojun made for the trapdoor, but Yangyang gave him a look. _Wait_. After a few seconds, Hendery opened the trapdoor, and Yangyang noticed how dishevelled he looked. There was blood on his bottom lip, his hair was messed up, and his breathing was heavy.

The three of them remained silent as they climbed out, until Xiaojun spoke up.

"What the fuck did they do to you?" He said angrily, and Hendery flushed.

"It's nothing..." He said quietly, most of his words inaudible. "Just taxes... Haven't got much money... Said I'd have it today... It'll be fine..."

" _Shit_." Xiaojun breathed.

Hendery was struggling for money, he was harbouring two fugitives who were only making the situation worse, he was carrying a great burden on his shoulders and Yangyang felt extremely sorry that he was part of that burden and that he couldn't do anything to help. It had just hit him how helpless he was, he hadn't done anything in return for Hendery all these years he'd been here, he _couldn't_ , but he could have at least thanked him every once in a while. It was only now he realised how much Hendery had done for him.

"I wish I could help." He muttered, it was all he could say in this situation. However, as soon as he said that, Hendery's expression turned into one of panic.

"No, there's no way you can help, and you are _not_ leaving this house." He said firmly. "And that applies to you too, Xiaojun."

"Yes, mother." He said mockingly, and was met with a harder glare. 

"Xiaojun, can you please take this seriously?" Hendery pleaded.

"I _am_ taking it seriously. I just don't see the harm in leaving the house every once in a while, as long as I'm not caught." He replied. "It's not like I'm going to walk straight down the middle of the streets in broad daylight."

"Look, I don't care about whatever argument you're going to try to persuade me with. You're not leaving, and that's that."

Yangyang wanted to agree with Hendery, he really did, after all he'd done for him. But he was so sick of being cooped up that he couldn't deny that Xiaojun had a point. He couldn’t go on like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, I’ve gotten so much done. This isn’t a normal update, I’ve gone back and edited most of the previous chapters, so I’d recommend rereading them. I’m actually surprised that I managed to get this much done in the normal time it takes me to update, but I’m taking it as a good thing! Hope you guys enjoyed, comment down below.


	11. The Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this is so late! I had a ski trip and then exams, so lost a bit of free time during which Id normally write.
> 
> Still, hope you enjoy it!

Lucas didn't want to close his eyes. He was not ready for what would happen if he did, not ready to understand what had happened and accept it. He couldn't face reality, not yet. His entire being was torn in half, one half telling him to close his eyes and regain at least a little of the sleep he'd neglected last night. The other half firmly told him no, told him that he would regret it if he did.

He glanced at Jungwoo, who sat wordlessly beside him. They were waiting for the second round of the tournament to begin, and the crowd above were already making an unnecessary amount of noise. Suddenly Lucas felt sorry for his friend; never before had he ordered him to do something, but last night he had told him to not let him sleep, no matter what. Which would've resulted in Jungwoo also not getting any sleep, yet he didn't complain, he was silent. More silent than normal, though, if that was even possible.

"You shouldn't compete in the match." Jungwoo murmured after a while.

"What are you talking about?" Lucas replied huffily.

"You didn't sleep at all last night, and I... I hardly think you're in any condition to be fighting. Not with all your... all your pent-up emotions." Jungwoo said this calmly, but Lucas could sense a hint of irritation in his eyes.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Lucas retorted. "You think that... _that_ will affect my fighting?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think!" Jungwoo's voice was slightly louder now. "I know that you keep avoiding it, but that won't solve anything! You can't run away forever. It'll catch up to you eventually and it'll be worse when it does."

"Running away? You think that's what I'm doing?" Lucas was incredulous. "That I'm some sort of coward?"

"You may as well be, at this point!"

"What would you do then, huh? If it had been _your_ father?" One step too far. Jungwoo stood up, fuming.

"In case you haven't noticed, Lucas, my father is already dead! But I don't try to pretend it never happened!" Lucas had never seen Jungwoo this angry before, and it scared him. "Get a grip." Jungwoo muttered before storming off.

Lucas put his face in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, and letting the tears fall. And he saw what he had been afraid to see, taking it in numbly. The trail of blood. The mangled body. His father's severed head. His father, who had never really cared, but still _his father_. His father, who was corrupted by wealth and power, but still _his father_. His father, dead on the floor, _his father_.

And the note that had laid beside his corpse. Written in swirling letters of gold, the royal seal at the bottom corner. He hadn't read it because he already knew they were justified to kill his father, but it still felt so wrong. It was still murder, and there was a price to pay. Murderers, assassins, mercenaries. What difference was there? They were all killers, they all destroyed human beings with no real care.

There was no place for killers in this world. No. Not this world, not another. Any killer deserved to receive the fate that they inflicted on others.

And Lucas knew that if he didn't do something about this, his father's ghost would haunt him until the end of time. Already he heard whispers of _vengeance_ in his ears, he could feel the presence of a ghost or spirit, watching him. Haunting him. His father wanted revenge, and Lucas would deliver. The killer would pay in blood.

\---------------------------------------------

Ten was up against one of the princes. Prince Taeyong, if he remembered correctly. From what Ten had heard, he was the eldest and crown prince, and a heavy burden weighed on his shoulders. Everyone expected him to win the tournament. He was greatly admired, mostly by women lusting after him and his 'gorgeous good looks'.Ten wasn't quite sure it was the looks over the title that made everyone so eager to become close to him. After pondering this, he stared at him from across the arena, waiting for the match to start, and something felt inherently off.

The prince's face would have looked like porcelain as everyone had said, if it weren't for the cuts and bruises that marred it. How the prince had gotten them, Ten didn't know, but it unnerved him. This man who was depicted as a picture-perfect, heavenly being, looked _weak_. His skin was deathly pale, his body skin and bone, his eyes sunken and sleep deprived. He looked as though he could barely stand up; Ten was certain he'd seen a pathetic attempt to cover up a limp as he'd walked in, and it almost seemed unfair that they should fight, with the prince's weakened condition.

But a small part of him was telling him to take the opportunity, beat him easily in the fight and claim another victory. He would continue to progress through the tournament, people would start to take notice of him, the man who defeated the crown prince. It seemed quite likely that he'd knock him down in a matter of seconds, and yet the other voice kept yelling in his head, _'That's unfair!'_. But this tournament wasn't about fairness, plenty of people had already played dirty. It was a battle of strength and honour, and you'd be weak to take pity on those less skilled as you.

The trumpet rang out, and Ten charged forwards, barely giving the prince time to blink. He counted under his breath the seconds that were passing, and on three he swung out with his sword. One hit, the prince staggered. Two hits, he fell to the ground. _Ten seconds_ , thought Ten as the flag was raised to signify he'd won the match, and a surprised but roaring applause erupted from the audience.

The king, however, wasn't clapping. He was looking at his son with disappointment and loathing, anger and resentment. It was this expression that stirred something in Ten as he stared at the prince's crumpled figure. That expression was the reason behind the injuries, it was the look of a man who hated his child, the look of a man who resorted to violence to teach them a lesson. Ten felt a shiver creeping through his bones, he felt pity and sympathy towards the prince. He'd seen that look far too often in Cruzia, he'd seen the damaged children who had suffered at their own parents' hands.

Realising this, he felt an even stronger hatred towards the king now. The king stooped low to achieve what he wanted, he was violent, he didn't feel any compassion, he didn't feel any remorse. He was a disgusting person. He didn't even deserve to be viewed as a person. Ten couldn't believe that this was the man ruling an entire kingdom, that such a fucked up person had that much power. After realising this, Ten's presence here seemed stupid and pathetic. What did the tournament matter, if the people of the kingdom were confined by the laws of a heartless, abusive man? What did a normal person like him matter if a prince was abused by his father, one day to be king, bearing scars that haunted him? It was only an expression that he'd drawn this from, and Ten couldn't prove anything from it, but he _knew_ that look. He was certain. And he was determined to find out more.

\---------------------------------------------

Yuta had been surprised at how _wasted_ Sicheng had become after one drink. He looked like he was about to pass out, but always started pouring out his heart again before he had the chance.

"You know, I never knew my mother." Sicheng slurred, looking strangely unbothered by the statement he had just spoken. "I always just assumed that my father had fallen out with her, or she'd passed away or something. He never told me, and I'll never know 'cause I never bothered to ask him. I didn't mind that much, but now, I dunno, I feel so... lonely. Like someone just stabbed me in the chest, leaving a massive hole in their wake."

"I understand that." Yuta murmured in reply. He noticed that Sicheng's eyes were slightly glazed over. Was he going to pass out? "You should probably get home. I'll walk with you."

The sky was shrouded in clouds as they walked back, the streets strangely empty and dark. Sicheng stumbled every now and then, and Yuta had to resist the urge to grab him and keep him steady. They didn't talk much, and Yuta realised how weird this situation was. He had stolen from Sicheng, taken him out for a drink as a way of apologising, and was now walking him home? But he wouldn't've been forgiven that easily. No, it was just the alcohol, and the next morning Sicheng would be wondering why he had even accepted the offer for a drink in the first place. 

The clouds became greyer, and the sky grew darker. The smell of rain lingered in the air, the dark clouds ready for a downpour. In the darkness, though, a light was visible a few streets along, accompanied by thick smoke. 

"It's just around here..." Sicheng muttered. He turned a corner and stopped dead. Yuta looked at him, saw his lip quivering and his hands shaking. He followed his gaze to a house in the middle of the street. Well, what was left of it underneath the flames that had engulfed it.

And the people laughing and kicking the flames, the people with smirks on their faces when _it wasn't funny_. Yuta recognised them. All too well.

"Yuta!" One of them called. "Where were you? You missed all the fun!" They broke of into maniacal laughter. Yuta glanced beside him. Sicheng was still frozen, and he turned slowly to face Yuta.

"You know them." It wasn't a question. "You... You know them and you're... You're with them. You did... You pretended... How could I be so stupid?" He screamed the last part, stepping back, gripping his hair, tears glistening in his eyes. Yuta couldn't even form words in his mouth. The shame overwhelmed him, the regretfulness, the sorriness. Why had he tried to pretend that he wasn't just like them?

It had been nice. Pretending to be normal. To have morals. Just for a few hours, comforting someone who was upset. But the truth came crashing down, like the rain that had just started to fall. He was an awful person. He didn't deserve to pretend.

"You're just like them." _He was just like them_. Sicheng's words were nothing but the truth. What hurt the most was the way that he looked at Yuta. No other words could describe it other than loathing.

"Come on, Yuta," His crew mates called, "Let's head back to the ship before the storm gets too rough!” 

Their words seemed distant, when all Yuta could focus on was the way that Sicheng was looking at him. The hate. The anger. The betrayal. A mess of emotions in his eyes, and Yuta picked them out one by one, each hitting him harder than the previous.

"Yuta, come on!" He didn't want to go. He wanted to scream to Sicheng that he was sorry. He wanted to scream that it wasn't his fault, even thought it was. He had no part in this, yet had unknowingly aided them by taking Sicheng to the pub, away from his house, leaving an open, empty target. It was his fault, it was his fault, it was his fault. It was because of him.

Because of him that a man's home had burned down. Because of him that the memories had burned with it. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself and had stolen a stupid sword! Just that, and the whole life of a man had disintegrated into dust. This was what he really did. This was the damage he caused. Irreparable damage that buying a fucking drink wasn't going to fix. Nothing could fix this.

He felt the arms grab him, dragging him away from the scene. And the image of Sicheng kneeling in front of the charred ruins was imprinted in his mind forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got another one coming very soon, might get it up today too!
> 
> Btw Jungwoo shouting is like a really loud whisper


	12. Broken

Taeyong staggered backwards as another blow landed on his cheek, hardly daring to meet his father's eyes. Somehow, the shame he felt was worse than the pain. He was a failure, he had brought humiliation upon his father.

The king's screeches were barely audible over the buzzing in his ears, but he didn't need to hear the words to know what he was saying. Useless, worthless, a failure.

He'd heard those words so many times before, but right now they hurt him the most. He'd wanted to do things right this time, to prove himself, but yet again he'd failed. Part of him didn't even see the point in trying anymore. But if this was what happened when he _did_ try, he didn't want to know how things would turn out if he put in no effort at all. It just hurt that he was always trying, and nothing good ever came out of it.

Eventually he was thrown to the floor, the taste of iron in his mouth, and his head pounding. Sweat poured down his body, he didn't have the strength to move, and he let out a whimper when the door was slammed as the king left. He felt so dizzy, he could barely keep his eyes open, and he desperately prayed that a servant or someone would find him and help him.

He felt bile rising his throat, and turned his head to the side with great difficulty, coughing it out onto the floor. The smell was unbearable, and he felt weaker with every passing second. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the pain away, wishing someone would find him. He had to do something, he couldn't just lie there. He tried to sit up, but wasn't even an inch off the floor before falling back down again, gritting his teeth in pain. He opened his eyes, his vision blurry and hazy. It was a struggle to keep them open, and his entire head throbbed, begging for a release from the pain.

It felt like ages he lay there, struggling to stay conscious. If he fell unconscious he could choke on his own vomit, and yet it seemed so much more painful to stay awake. Minutes passed by, and he could barely hold on anymore. The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps were so loud, like fire in his ears.

"Shit," He heard Jisung's voice, a small but good enough comfort, "Shit, Taeyong. Can you hear me?" Taeyong stared at him, shaking, not daring to open his mouth, but trying to convey his answer with his eyes. "It'll be okay, just hold on, yeah?" Jisung's voice was wavering, he couldn't hide behind false confidence. "I'm going to go get help, I'll be back soon, just hold on."

Jisung sprinted out of the room, leaving Taeyong alone again. The candles bore into his eyes, they nearly blinded him with their brightness. Everything hurt, he couldn't stop shaking, he could feel his own weakness, the awful feeling that had latched onto his body like a leech.

A few minutes passed before he heard the door open again, more people this time. He was lifted onto his bed, feeling some relief in lying there. He could make out the gnarly hands of the court physician, and his hoarse voice. A vile liquid was poured down his throat, and he had to fight the urge to throw up again. His consciousness properly slipped away this time, and the voices faded to silence.

\---------------------------------------------

Jisung hadn't wanted to leave Taeyong for a second. He was worried, and any other responsibilities that he held were of little importance when compared to the health of his brother. So he was extremely annoyed when a servant said that his presence was needed at the palace gates because of some person who was lingering and persistently protesting against the guards' attempts to get him away.

He set off to the palace gates with a scowl on his face. Were the guards so incompetent that they needed him to get rid of whoever was lingering there? They couldn't even do their jobs. It was ridiculous.

As he reached them, he sent a scathing glare to the guards. He then turned his attention to the man who stood in front of them.

"What do you want?" He asked. Looking more closely, the man looked familiar. If Jisung wasn't mistaken, he was the one who had fought Taeyong, and won. He felt a surge of anger towards him. It was _his_ fault that Taeyong had lost, because he hadn't even given him a chance.

"I wish to speak to Prince Taeyong, my lord." His voice sounded strange, like he wasn't from Avaria.

"He is ill, surely the guards have told you this?" Jisung replied, sending another glare at the guards.

"I just want to apologise." The man continued. "He must've been ill before the match, too. It wasn't fair to fight him in that condition. I should have called the fight off."

"Well, I'll relay your apology." Jisung muttered, intending to do nothing if the sort.

"Please, let me speak to him." There was something about this man. His intentions were strange to say the least. There was sincerity in his eyes, but it seemed odd as well. Jisung didn't know what to make of it. "Just for five minutes."

"If he is awake, you may speak for five minutes, and five minutes _only_." Jisung did not know why he said yes. There was something about this man, something about him that was strange. He was persuasive, without saying much. It was odd. "Follow me."

He lead him through the corridors of the castle, well aware of how confusing and complicated it was, but making no effort to allow him to catch up. He did not trust this stranger. _Then why are you letting him talk to Taeyong_ , a voice in his head asked, to which he had no reply.

As they reached the large door that lead to Taeyong's chambers, Jisung stopped. "Wait here." He said, and slipped inside, closing the doors behind him.

What he hadn't expected was to see his father in there. He froze, looking at Taeyong's sleeping figure, his mother who sat by his bedside. And his father, standing away from his son, not even looking at him. No one had noticed Jisung entering. He pressed himself into a crevice in the wall, not wanting to be seen.

"You went too far this time, Hyunwoo." His mother spoke, not taking her eyes off Taeyong. Jisung's heart skipped a beat. She never stood up to their father. _Never_.

"What?" His father snapped, fixing her with a glare.

"You can't keep doing this." She turned to face him. "He's your son."

"He's a disgrace! He is unworthy of his title, and no matter how many times I punish him he never learns!"

Jisung's mother stood up, shaking. Her face was livid, he'd never seen her this angry before. He'd never seen her _angry_ at all.

"You have no right, no right to speak of him that way. I will not stand for this any longer!"

His father stepped closer towards her, fuming. His face was red with fury, and Jisung felt more scared than he ever had before. Seeing both of them this angry, arguing.

"And what makes you think that you have the right to speak to me that way?" The king spoke quietly, but his face was a dead giveaway, he was angry.

"If you don't leave him alone-"

"What? What will you do?"

_Slap_. The king staggered backwards from the force of her hit. She stormed out of the room, the doors swinging open violently. And suddenly Jisung recalled the reason he had come here in the first place, the stranger that had been waiting outside. He rushed out, not caring if he was seen anymore, only to be met with an empty corridor. That man had gone. Gone after definitely overhearing that conversation.

He didn't stay outside for long, though. He stepped back into Taeyong's chambers; no way he was leaving him alone with their father again. The king hadn't moved from where he stood. He just stood there. Laughing.

Jisung didn't know what to do. He glanced at Taeyong once more, glad to see that his brother was still asleep. He hadn't heard what had happened. He was about to walk over to him, when the king addressed him.

"Tell your brother to get his act together." He said, his voice strangely calm. Almost conversational. "For her sake."

And he walked out of the room as if nothing had even happened.

\---------------------------------------------

The rain had ceased to fall, but the sky still remained dark. It was probably night by now, but Sicheng wasn't aware of the time passing. He was rummaging through the ruins furiously, trying to find something, anything that had survived. The ashes burnt and stung his hands, but he could barely feel the pain anymore.

After a while he came to the conclusion that there was nothing left. It was all gone, everything, his whole life burned to the ground. He had nothing left. No father, no sword, no job, no house. All because of that scumbag. The lying, thieving scumbag. He'd ruined Sicheng's life.

He didn't know what to do. He had nothing left. He'd be reduced to a beggar on the streets, and he'd die the long, painful death of starvation. He hugged his knees, so afraid. He had never felt so alone in his life; before he'd had his workshop and the company of the possessions that lay within it. But now he had nothing. It was just him, alone.

After sitting in isolation from a while, he saw a figure appear through the smoke. He looked at it with blurry eyes. A boy, somewhere in his late teens. His eyes were sharp and calculating, and he held himself with confidence.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" Sicheng asked. It seemed like some sort of divine intervention, a figure appearing through the mist.

"I'm Xiaojun. To put it simply, I need a sword. I'd heard of a great blacksmith here..." The boy looked at the ruins and then at Sicheng, as if hoping that _he_ wasn't the blacksmith and that the smithy had not just burned down.

"You're too late." Sicheng said drily, letting out a strange, watery laugh that did not belong to him. "It's all gone."

"What happened?" Xiaojun asked, his face suddenly filled with a vague sort of sympathy.

"Pirates." Sicheng muttered, feeling the bitterness of the word on his tongue. "Didn't even take anything, they just... they just burned it all down..."

"That's awful." Xiaojun said, sitting down next to Sicheng.

"I don't have anything left, and it's all their fault. I hate them. They steal from people because they can't make a living normally. They burn down houses for fun. They ruin people's lives for no reason other than their own amusement! They think it's funny to take away everything I had, to destroy my life. And they lie and pretend, too. They trick people into thinking that they're nice, and then... and then stab them in the back. They don't care about anyone other than themselves. It's all because of them. It's their fault." It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his chest, and he hadn't really realised what he'd been saying until he'd finished. Now the burden was gone because he'd admitted aloud what he'd been afraid to admit.

Xiaojun nodded, murmuring his agreement. For a while, there was silence, during which Sicheng felt very awkward. He was sitting outside the ruins of his house with some stranger, discussing how his life had been ruined. A sudden thought occurred to him that set his nerves on edge. Hadn't he got into this mess by trusting a stranger? And now he was trusting another one.

"You know, I think you might be able to help me with something." Xiaojun said, and Sicheng tensed.

"And what's that?" He asked.

"Ah, it's simple really." Xiaojun's mouth grew into a malicious smile. "I want to kill the king."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I felt bad that this update was so late so I wrote two chapters! Maybe I should be late more often(just kidding)
> 
> I’m always really thankful to everyone who’s stuck with this story, and all the lovely comments as well. It makes my day, so thanks guys!
> 
> I’ll update next hopefully next month, so see ya then


	13. Plots and Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, but I’ve got another one coming soon! Hope you guys enjoy :)

All over the kingdom, news of the upcoming ball spread like wildfire. Just like the tournament, it was open to everyone, no matter their class or status. The palace gates would be opened, and anyone could enter. It was at their own risk that they did this, but the king had made up his mind, and wasn't about to change it.

Meanwhile, Taeyong lay bedridden. His own misery at his uselessness was almost as bad as the pain he was in. Luckily the court physician was fairly good at what he did, so he was healing quickly, however there were deeper wounds than the ones on the outside. His pride had taken a blow from losing his match, and he knew that his reputation would have too. People probably were questioning the fact that the heir to the throne was so weak. He was used to both good and bad gossip, but somehow he had a feeling it would be worse this time.

For nearly the whole time he'd been there, Jisung had sat beside him. Taeyong did enjoy the company, but he just felt as though he was being a burden again.

"Don't you have better things to do?" He asked his brother.

"Look, Taeyong, we need to talk." Jisung seemed hesitant, and refused to meet Taeyong's eyes. "About what he does to you."

The meaning there was unmistakeable, but Taeyong did not want to talk about it. It made him more upset that Jisung knew, and saw him in those moments. That he saw a weaker side of Taeyong, the part of him that was worthless.

"What do you mean?" He muttered, trying to think of a way to avoid the subject.

"You know what I mean." Jisung looked at Taeyong now, with frightened eyes. "You can't just let him do that."

"I have no choice, Jisung. There's nothing that I can do. You _know_ that." He wanted the conversation to end. He didn't want to discuss this any longer. He didn't want to think about whether it was right or wrong. He didn't want to think about it at all.

"What if it was me?" Jisung's voice grew quieter, and more shaky. "I know that you wouldn't stand by and let it happen. And nor will I."

His words hit Taeyong like a punch to the gut. Taeyong knew that he spoke truthfully. And the thought of it happening to Jisung... well, that was more than enough to make him reconsider just accepting everything. He could feel tears gradually build up in his eyes, but held them back. He'd already shown that he was weak too many times before.

"Jisung." His voice wavered. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. I don't know how we can stop it. There's nothing that I can think of..."

"We'll find a way." Jisung spoke reassuringly. "I promise." The conviction in his eyes clearly showed that this was a promise he would fulfil no matter what. Taeyong was filled with overwhelming gratitude and love for his brother. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, as he thought of the impossible task that this promise entailed.

\---------------------------------------------

Xiaojun felt bad. He hadn't _manipulated_ Sicheng into helping him. He'd just... Okay, so he'd manipulated him, but Sicheng had every right to despise the king. It was the king that allowed pirates in the kingdom and didn't bother to get rid of them. That was a good enough reason to participate in a plot to kill him. It didn't get rid of the lingering guilt, though.

Something that was worse was Hendery's reaction when he came back.

"You could have been seen, you could have been killed!" Hendery yelled. "And who the hell is this?"

"This is Sicheng. Please let him stay? He has nowhere to go." Xiaojun explained his situation. He wasn't very good at hiding the real reason he wanted Sicheng to stay. Luckily Hendery's heart was bigger than he let on.

"Fine. But if you ever leave again, so help you."

But then there was Yangyang. He had caught on from the beginning that Xiaojun was up to something, and it was infuriating. He was constantly sticking his nose into things that weren't his business, and annoying the hell out of Xiaojun. He almost wished he hadn't saved the boy all those years ago. But then haunting images from that time came back, and he knew that if he had the choice again, he'd still save him.

"You're planning something," He said to Xiaojun after Sicheng had arrived.

"So what if I am?" Xiaojun snapped, starting to dislike Yangyang more and more as time passed.

"I'm not stupid, you know." Yangyang replied. "You didn't leave the house because you were tired of being cooped up in here. You left because you needed someone to help you."

"You can't prove that." Xiaojun scoffed, but Yangyang didn't back down.

"If you hate being cooped up so much, you would've escaped from prison much earlier." He'd just taken a step too far.

"What did I say about not mentioning the past?" Xiaojun seethed. "I've had enough of you poking your nose into what I'm doing. It's none of your business, so stop interfering with things that don't concern you!"

"You're planning on killing someone, aren't you?" Yangyang's eyes were less persistent, and more fearful. "Who?"

"If you're so clever, figure out who it is yourself. I would've thought it was obvious." Xiaojun found it amusing that the kid hadn't figured out who he planned on killing yet.

"You don't deserve this. After all you've been through, you don't deserve the consequences and guilt that would come with it. You should be able to live freely."

"The only way I can live freely is if my name is cleared, which is never going to happen. I might as well commit a crime worthy of my sentence before I'm sent back there." He let out a laugh. "If I'm lucky, I'll die before they can catch me."

Yangyang didn't reply, and just looked at him with pitiful eyes. Xiaojun didn't need his pity. Pity wasn't going to kill the king. Pity wasn't going to fill the void he'd had in his chest for the past five years. Pity wasn't going to erase That Night from his memory. Pity didn't do a _damned_ thing, and yet this kid was pitying him, even though he'd been through worse.

He realised his hand was trembling again, and he grabbed it with the other, frustration flowing through him like poison. Memories were dangerous things. He was on the verge of reliving them, and it was what he feared most. After suppressing it for years, he didn't want to break down just because of what some kid said. _You don't deserve this_. Well, surprise! Life wasn't fair. Life chewed people up and spat out the soggy remains.

What he didn't understand was how someone like Yangyang had managed to remain fully human. Xiaojun knew what he'd been through, and yet he was still... He was still somewhat pure hearted. He cared about Xiaojun's life, when Xiaojun didn't care about his. Five years ago Xiaojun had cared. But now? He'd lost that part of him.

"I won't repeat myself." Xiaojun said quietly. "Keep your nose out of my business."

Those goddamn pitiful eyes.


	14. An Unconventional Ball

Taeyong hated the ball as soon as it started. He hadn't fully recovered, and despite the court physician's protests, his father insisted he attended to make up for his failure at the match.

Normally it was easy to sit and become the beautiful prince that everyone fawned over. But not when his insides still churned with fatigue, when the golden circlet resting on his head gripped his skin like a handcuff with no key. He had to sit through hours of small talk, political talk, not a single break. And he'd be expected to get up and dance with some random noble girl at some point, which he wasn't sure that he'd be able to manage without breaking his facade.

So many eyes were on him, but there were three that stood out. He could feel his father's impenetrable gaze next to him, watching his every move. Watching for an excuse to hurt him again, some sort of slip up. Jisung's worried eyes glanced his way every so often, very indiscreet as he continuously asked Taeyong how he was holding up in what was barely a whisper.

The third pair of eyes belonged to a stranger. Taeyong didn't know who, but he could feel their stare. It wasn't a girl lusting after him. It wasn't a noble's calculating eyes, which weren't so different to his father's at times. This gaze was most similar to Jisung's, yet very different. There was concern, but it felt different. Not insincere, but different.

He forced a smile, trying to listen to everyone who spoke to him. Everything felt forced, his whole being ached. He didn't want to carry on pretending. But it was his duty, it was his duty to live a life of lies and pretending.

He hated being watched. He felt even more like a bird in a cage, some sort of spectacle rather than just a human. He'd never been just a human, and he never would be. He was the crown prince, the heir to the throne. He was the crown prince, the handsome charmer. He was the crown prince, but he didn't want to wear his crown. Every time he did, the mark it left seemed to linger for longer. A ring of red around his forehead, a reminder of who he was.

His time was running out. He couldn't run or hide from what he was meant to become. He was meant to be king one day, but it terrified him. Every time his father so much as coughed, it sent him into a state of panic. His father would die one day, and that day would be the end of his freedom.

And even though he could, he would never leave and abandon the throne. He'd never leave Jisung with all that responsibility. It was his responsibility, and he needed to accept it. He needed to, but it was so hard to accept. Why must he do something that made his spirit shiver at the very thought of it?

Something else was fear of becoming like his father. He'd been more cruel to the servants as of lately. And every time he looked in the mirror, it was like a stranger staring back at him, with the same emotionless face of his father. He didn't want to become like his father. Yet with every passing day, it seemed more and more inevitable.

He didn't believe in fate. But god, it seemed like fate had it in for him. His life seemed less like a life, and more like a slow, agonising death. Maybe there'd come a time when he couldn't feel the pain anymore.

\---------------------------------------------

It was a relief when Ten could finally pull himself out of the crowded ballroom, and stop being bombarded by other people making conversation. He'd been trying to watch Prince Taeyong, but it was impossible to even get close due to the people crowded in every possible inch of the room.

He ended up on an empty balcony, looking out at the stars with the same wonder of a child. He couldn't help it. He'd always loved looking at the night sky, it had been one of the only things that brought him happiness in Cruzia. And the sky never changed, no matter where you went. He knew it would always be there, waiting for him.

"Wanted some peace and quiet from the crowds?" A man appeared next to Ten on the balcony, very at ease with his surroundings, unlike Ten. "Me too."

There was silence as Ten didn't reply, staring out at the view, slightly awestruck. The kingdom looked so beautiful at night, with all the lights dotted around just like the stars in the sky. It was hard to believe that he'd ever been anywhere else, that he had never been a part of this beautiful world for most of his life.

"I saw your match, you know." The stranger continued talking. "Pretty amazing, you finished it in about fifteen seconds."

"Actually it was in ten seconds, I counted." Ten responded, fighting off the smile playing at his lips.

"Well, I'm honoured to be in your presence then." The man joked. "My name is Johnny, and your name is?"

"My name is not something you need to know." Ten said curtly, intent on keeping his guard up. Even simply telling his name to someone made him feel exposed.

"Why not? What's so bad about telling me your name? I have to have something to call you by." Ten did not reply, feeling tense and worried.

"You won't tell me your name?" Johnny looked genuinely shocked and even a little hurt, but he immediately covered it up with his joking demeanour. "Fine. Since you finished your match in ten seconds, I'll call you Ten."

The smile formed on Ten's lips before he could stop it, and he laughed quietly, struggling to speak through his giggles. "You guessed right. That's my name."

"Your name is Ten?"

"And your name is Johnny. That's a funny name." And then Ten realised that it was probably a normal name in Avaria, and he had messed up, but somehow it wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. Johnny just laughed, not thinking twice about it, which greatly relieved Ten.

"Speak for yourself." Johnny replied, running his hands through his chestnut coloured hair, and Ten watched the way it naturally fell back into position. He then realised he'd been staring, and quickly tore his eyes away, convincing himself that Johnny definitely hadn't been staring back.

Silence fell between them again, but this time it was comfortable, it was nice. Ten felt almost at ease; he told himself that he shouldn't feel at ease but he couldn't even help it. Things just didn't seem to matter as much right now. What seemed to matter more was suppressing the urge to fix Johnny's messy hair.

Distant shouting pierced the silence, and both Johnny and Ten turned to face the distance it was coming from. Johnny muttered something incomprehensible to himself, and before Ten could even say another word he had ran off.

Ten looked after him, sighing, and then told himself off for sighing. Should he follow? He'd enjoyed Johnny's company greatly, but he just couldn't afford to let his guard down. He had to stay focused, and just get through all this without losing his life.

"You're a Cruzian, aren't you?" Ten spun around so quickly it hurt, and faced the figure who had addressed him. A boy had appeared on the balcony, and his expression suggested it had not been a question.

"What do you want?" Ten said quietly, pretending to be intimidated by this child(he was actually trying to hold in his laughter).The boy leant against the railing of balcony with a smirk, god knows how he even got there; by climbing up? He thought that he had the upper hand here, it was clear from the smug look on his face.

"I'm just wondering," He fixed his eyes on Ten's. "If you'd be interested in killing the king?"

For a millisecond, he considered saying yes. Images of the prince's lackluster eyes flashed through his mind, the expression of hatred on the king's face, how lifeless the prince had looked today as he'd faked a smile for all those people watching him. Ten pushed those thoughts away. He'd come here to prove everyone wrong about his people. Murdering someone would contradict all of that.

"No, so don't waste your time trying to persuade me." Ten kept his words brief, as he had made up his mind about following Johnny. He made to leave the balcony, but the boy grabbed his shoulder.

"I can tell people who you are. If they find out you'll be killed." The boy's eyes were strangely desperate, but that was what gave away the fact that Ten still had the upper hand in this conversation.

"You don't know the first thing about blackmail, do you?" Ten shook off his hand. "Besides, the people love me right now, and they wouldn't believe the words of one person."

And at that, he set off back to the ballroom to see what the commotion was about.

\---------------------------------------------

Taeil wasn't surprised when it happened. It would only have been a matter of time. What with him ignoring every letter from the Cruzian queen, desperately trying to figure out a way to counter attack. She would know what he was doing. She always knew. And she had realised letters weren't enough to convince him anymore.

The Cruzians came from every direction, like tigers closing in on their prey. Everything seemed to slow down, conversations fading like dust being blown away. The swords glinted like stars among a mass of black, hooded figures. They had seen a group of revellers, and seen them as an easy target. They moved about swiftly, like well trained hunters.

The screams and shouts broke out as the first blood was drawn, the body crumpling to the floor like a rotten apple falling from a tree. Their faces were hidden, but the smirks on the Cruzian's faces were unmistakable.

However, they hadn't expected half of the ballroom to start fighting back, Taeil included. He ran at the closest one to him, drawing his sword and letting out a shout. Other people took his lead, and more and more blood was spilled, staining the polished wooden floor ruby red. Taeil easily bettered his opponent in skill, and he cornered them and knocked their sword out of their hands.

But the one thing that the Cruzians were better at was speed, and stealth. Most of them seemed to be cornered, they realised they were outnumbered. Like dogs running back to their master, they fled, easily avoiding any further attacks. Well, they could run. They could run, but they'd be followed.

Taeil was the first to run after them, and he heard footsteps of others following him. They ran and ran, to the edge of the city, but the Cruzians were faster. They had melted away, just as mysteriously as they had appeared. Taeil turned to face those who had followed him. He noticed the two princes among them, but no one else he recognised.

"We can still go after them." He said. "Even if they're fast, they can only go so far." Some people looked nervous at the prospect of leaving the kingdom, and many backed away. That left about twelve people.

"It wasn't a very well planned out attack." Someone said.

"It wasn't meant to be a proper attack." He'd known as soon as they'd appeared. "It was a warning."

"A warning for what?" Someone else asked. He looked too young to be a part of this fight.

"That there's worse to come." A few people's expressions darkened as he said that. "That's why we have to go after them. We show that we won't just accept this and cower in fear."

He was done being afraid of the Cruzian queen and her threats. It was time to fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! The next update may not be for a while, I’ll see how things go. School’s nearly over, so hopefully I’ll have more time to write over the summer. 
> 
> The sort of beginning/first arc of the story end here. Now, things are going to get a lot more serious and interesting, so you guys can anticipate that! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	15. Overcome

Doyoung woke up with no control over his body. It felt like someone had shoved a handful of sand down his throat, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move a single limb. He couldn't even open his eyes. The floor below him felt like uneven stone, and it was wet, and cold. He didn't know where he was.

Hyperventilation took control of his mind, the only thing he still had control over, and he tried to force himself to think rationally. He had to find a way out of where he was. He just didn't have a clue how.

The distant sound of footsteps echoed around him for several minutes, getting louder and louder. His heart was hammering against his chest in time with them. Finally they stopped.

"I can no longer rely on humans to spy for me." A woman's voice rang out, commanding and powerful. "That is why I summoned you. Take this man as your vessel, spy for me, and I promise you full ownership of all the bodies that fall along the way."

Whether who she was talking to replied, Doyoung wouldn't know. At that moment his body was filled with pain, and he couldn't even scream. It coursed through his veins, through his bones, like some sort of deadly poison infecting him.

He could taste blood in his mouth, he could feel his head throbbing. Everything ached, everything stung like salt in open wounds. No words could describe the true agony of it.

After a while, the pain subsided. His eyes opened, but he wasn't the one opening them. He sat up, but-but it wasn't him doing this, he wasn't doing any of this. He had no control over his body.

"This will do." The words tasted bitter as they were formed in his mouth. It felt unnatural, like someone had attached strings to him, was forcing him to move. Even his breathing felt forced, the oxygen he was taking in no longer felt right.

_Don't worry._ A voice spoke within his head. _Soon you won't even remember who you used to be. You will become a mindless puppet. You won't have to feel pain for much longer._

It was after he heard that voice that he tried to piece together what was really happening. Someone - or something - had taken over his body. A demon or spirit. He wasn't the superstitious kind, but it seemed like the only explanation. That, or it was all a dream. It felt too real to be a dream.

He tried to stay calm, and focus. If he was subtle enough, he could build up the strength to regain control of his body. Like hell he'd become a 'mindless puppet'. He focused his entire being on it but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move at all.

He was trapped inside himself.

\---------------------------------------------

Hendery was worried out of his mind. Xiaojun had disappeared again, and this time he hadn't come back. Hendery wanted him to come back, so that he could be angry at him. He couldn't be angry right now. Right now, all he could do was worry.

"I'm back!" Xiaojun's voice rang out as the door slammed behind him.

Hendery stood up, marching over to him. Xiaojun cowered a little when he saw how angry he was.

"YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!" Hendery shouted, grabbing the front of Xiaojun's shirt.

"But I wasn't killed." Xiaojun replied.

"So you're just going to rely on luck?" Hendery questioned, letting go of his shirt. "You won't be so lucky next time, and that's why there isn't going to be a next time. Not whilst I'm risking my life for you as you live under my roof!"

It was only then that he noticed the two people standing behind Xiaojun.

"Who are they?" He asked slowly, calmly.

"This is Lucas and Jungwoo. They, uh, well... I was wondering if they could stay here-"

"MY HOUSE IS NOT A BLOODY REFUGEE CAMP! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST BRING IN WHOEVER YOU FANCY? SURE, BRING IN ALL YOUR FRIENDS, MAKE YOURSELVES COMFORTABLE! LET ME KNOW WHEN THE REST OF THEM ARE COMING SO THAT I HAVE TIME TO MAKE THE BEDS BEFORE THEY COME! DO WHATEVER IT IS YOU'RE DOING, DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME! IT'S NOT LIKE I CAN BARELY AFFORD TO FEED TWO PEOPLE, LET ALONE EVEN PAY MY TAXES! NO! DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME! GO ON YOUR FUCKING SUICIDE MISSION, JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T MOVE ON FROM THE PAST!"

He stood there for a few more seconds, looking at Xiaojun, who wouldn't meet his eyes. Then Hendery walked into his room, and slammed the door.

He slid to the floor, shaking with anger and worry and so many more emotions. The tears that fell down his face stung, his breaths were shuddery and uneven. Why did Xiaojun want revenge so badly? Why couldn't he move on? Hendery knew that he hadn't been there, that he hadn't seen it, but he couldn't stop himself from asking those questions.

"Hendery." Xiaojun's voice was quiet, but Hendery heard it clearly through the door. "It was wrong of me. It was wrong of me to leave the house and bring back more people. I've betrayed your trust twice now. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I won't leave again. I promise."

"Do you really want to do this?" Hendery asked, sniffing. "Do you really want to put everything on the line? Will it... Will you feel better if you kill him?"

Xiaojun hesitated. "Yes."

"Then I'll help you. I promise."

\---------------------------------------------

It was the early hours of the morning when they finally made camp. The sun was beginning to rise, causing the trees of the forest to cast long shadows upon them.

Jisung and Taeyong sat apart from everyone else, feeling out of place and afraid. Jisung watched how King Taeil so easily conversed with them, and wondered where he got the confidence from. He seemed like a natural leader, good at talking to people. Well, most of them.

"Are you kidding me?" Someone exclaimed after Taeil had been discussing some tactics. "It is _so_ easy to ambush people on a path like that one. Twelve people will _not_ make it through in one piece."

"I have confidence in the strength and bravery of everyone here." Taeil replied, looking at the man with disdain.

The man scoffed. "Strength and bravery have nothing to do with it. Bandits will shoot us all down from up on the slopes."

"What's your name?" Taeil asked theman.

"My name? Nakamoto Yuta."

"Okay, Yuta. Where do you suggest we go instead?" Taeil's eyes were challenging.

"Ah, well. If you're asking for my opinion, I say we don't take any paths at all. Think about it. The Cruzians wouldn't have taken a path, so if we're following them it's better to trace their footsteps as accurately as we can."

Taeil nodded, his expression changed. "I like you, Yuta. I think it's a sound plan."

Jisung turned his attention back to Taeyong. He sat hunched over, his hands clutching his head.

"Taeyong, are you okay?" Jisung asked, prying his hands away from his head. Taeyong's face was soaked in sweat, and his breathing was shaky.

"I'm fine." Taeyong breathed. "Just a headache."

"You can't fight like this." Jisung said.

"I don't care. I'm still going to." Taeyong stared at the ground, as if staring at it hard enough would make things better.

Jisung dropped his voice to a whisper. "If you fight in this condition, he'll only be worse when we get back."

"Maybe I don't want to go back." Taeyong replied.

"Shut up. You're not thinking straight."

Taeyong didn't reply, putting his head in his hands once more. Jisung put a hand on his back, close to breaking down. He wanted to help Taeyong. But things seemed to have reached a point beyond repair.

Out of nowhere, a hoard of arrows rained down on the group.

"This is why you don't stay on the paths!" Yuta exclaimed angrily as they ran for cover into the trees. Jisung put his arm around Taeyong's waist, helping the older boy to run, which he really wasn't in any state to do.

As they reached the trees, the arrows continued to rain down. It seemed that the bandits were keeping their distance, and not allowing them to fight back. If they ran, the bandits would follow. Jisung tried to think of a way out of the situation that didn't involve stupidly running into danger.

He was so focused on helping Taeyong, that he didn't think about protecting himself. He gasped in pain when an arrow hit his shoulder, burrowed deep into his flesh.

"Jisung!" Taeyong exclaimed, and they were both holding onto each other, trying to keep the other one standing. Jisung felt another arrow shoot past, a very close call. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable, but still he worried for Taeyong.

He turned his attention back to what the others were doing. Most of them were hiding behind trees, but at that moment, Taeil stepped out from behind his tree, hands held above his head.

"Don't shoot." He said, calm. "You'd regret it if you did."

"Give us a reason not to." One of the bandits snarled.

"You see this?" Taeil removed a ring from his finger, and held it up for them to see. "This is a royal seal. You kill me, you're in big trouble."

"But that also means a ransom would be quite high, wouldn't it?" Another bandit said.

Taeil chuckled. "I wouldn't do that either. My army isn't far behind us. You'd be better off leaving if you want to keep your lives."

Jisung felt his heart pounding. Would they call his bluff?

"Shame." Someone who looked like the leader said. "Let's go."

Jisung waited until the bandits were out of sight, before sinking to the floor. He touched his shoulder, and his fingers came back covered in blood. He stared at it blankly, disorientated and dizzy from the pain.

"Jisung, stay with me..." But his head became heavier, and he felt his body succumb to the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xiaojun is a manipulative piece of shit and I’m so here for it. He’s just taking any opportunity like “you have a vague reason to dislike the king. wanna kill him?”
> 
> And for those who are wondering, yes there is an angsty backstory that will be revealed later.
> 
> Ahhhhh I love writing this so much, I’m so in love with all of the characters I’ve created for everyone. Hope you guys liked this chapter :)


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